Shadows of Amn
by Vegetius
Summary: Rumor has it that the streets are paved with gold in the City of Coin. But deep in the sinister capital of Amn, more than just loose coin litter the streets. As the troubles of the North spill down into the lands of the south, destiny comes with them.
1. Prologue

_**  
Prologue**_

* * *

"_The Lord of Murder shall perish,_

_but in his death he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. _

_Chaos shall be sown in their footsteps."_

_ So Sayeth the wise Alaundo._

_

* * *

  
_

Darkness drowned the streets of Athkatla in their gloom. It was a blacker night than most upon the capital city of the Amnish nation. Whether it was clouds that choked the sky above or something else, it could not be said. It seemed as if the very stars themselves had been swallowed whole by some vengeful beast. But then the moon broke through, briefly. A soft, silvery light returned to the streets below, drifting through the rain. Very little moved down there.

There were few who would have disturbed that late hour. The dull gleam of lanterns hanging from the eaves of a rundown tavern or inn were all that spoke of any comfort in the dead of night. Most residents of the slums of the Amnish city stayed indoors after dusk. And, aside from the ghostly sounds of laughter that drifted out through the ragged doors of that sodden tavern, the streets assumed an all too familiar, eerie quiet.

Shadows abounded there beneath the moon upon the faintly-lighted paths, and one in particular caught the eye. It moved with steady purpose out and away from a dilapidated old house, striding almost self-consciously through the gloom across the cobblestones. It must have suspected eyes upon it by the way it kept its own darting every which way. It certainly did not feel wrong in thinking so. That city had far too many around each corner. The shadowed figure knew that only all too well.

But that was hardly the greatest of its concerns tonight. It found the place it was supposed to be easily enough. It settled there. And waited.

It did not have to wait long.

Eventually, another shadow appeared out of the dark to one side. It flitted toward the first, gliding through the driving rain. Then stopped.

The first shadow removed its hood hastily after a moment, despite the downpour. It formed into a man, his eyes fixed warily on that other form before him. That one did not show its face. It just stood there, still and silent in the street.

The man worked his jaw, blinking rapidly beneath the rain running down over his face. Eventually, he managed to find his tongue.

"You … you wished to speak with me?"

He seemed impressed with his ability to speak. It emboldened him, and he stood straighter. He even went so far as to notice that he had pulled his hood down. But he left it where it was.

The cloaked form before him did not answer, though. Not right away. It let the silence stretch on between them again, the steady pitter patter of rain on slate and thatched roofs all that could be heard. It seemed to be studying him. But it was hard to tell without seeing a face. That black void beneath its cowl was empty.

"What–"

"Good business to you, Lassal."

The man snapped his mouth back shut, as the other suddenly spoke. The sound cut him off so quickly. He swallowed in surprise.

But then he settled just a bit. A woman's voice. He had yet to meet one that he could not sell.

"Good business to you as well," he offered quickly. His cheek twitched just a little bit. A nervous habit. "This is certainly not the hour for it, though. Nor the place."

He glanced about toward the emptied streets. A beggar shambled off in another direction, cowering beneath whatever eaves would take it. There was no one else around.

"Oh, I beg to differ," the cowled form spoke.

Its voice was as cold as the soaking night air about. It sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. He didn't like that.

"It is the perfect place to do business."

Her tones dragged on like silk against steel. Something about the sound just made his teeth grind. He tried not to let it show.

"And what business would that be, then?" he asked. It was hard not to sound a little irritated.

"Oh … I think you know."

He let out an exasperated breath. He got enough of that double-talk back with the others. At times it could be amusing, even fun. But there … there in a drenched, black alley with a complete stranger …

No, it wasn't quite so tolerable. His patience was thin enough already. It had been ever since he had first received that message in his books. It had been written in blood.

"You are looking for a change, Lassal," the woman's voice cooed on at him. "Or else, you would not have come at all …"

He narrowed his eyes. That was what the message had said – tucked away inside the crease of his record books. It was mildly amusing. He had never thought to turn traitor before. He had never been so foolish. One did not get so far as he did by being overly so.

Yet, something about it all had intrigued him. His daily routine had grown quite stale of late.

His head bobbed ever so slightly. The other seemed to take that as a sign to continue.

"We are too. We wish to … _employ_ you, of course," the cowled form said.

"… Employ me?" he baited.

"There is a monopoly in this city," she countered. Her tongue clipped each word ever so gently.

"We intend to _break_ it."

He could almost feel the cold smile there beneath the hood.

"So I have heard," Lassal replied simply.

The rumors had been circulating quietly, and at their own peril. He had long since learned to keep an ear to them, especially in his line of work.

"Well then," he grunted, "what is it you want? And, more importantly …" He smiled. He lowered his eyes and his voice both. "What is your offer?"

If the woman beneath the hood had not been smiling before, he was certain that she was now. It sent another shiver down his back, and he shifted. But he kept that pleased look plastered across his face. He was all too eager for what was to come.

"We want _you_, Lassal."

"Well … of course." He gave the other a lop-sided frown. "Why else would you have asked me here? My services are quite valuable." He raised an eyebrow. "But you must still make me an offer first. I am not sold quite so easily, my dear."

"Our offer," the voice mused, "is one you cannot refuse."

He barked a laugh.

"I think I will be the judge of that, dear girl." He cracked another smile at her. "You are only as tall as your last deal. I am afraid that, if you do not tempt me properly, and soon," he warned lightly. "Well, then I will just have to be on my way back to my current employers."

The other had not moved an inch since she had first arrived. It almost seemed as if the cloak could have been suspended there by some sort of witchcraft. That disembodied voice echoed out from within.

"You misunderstand our summons, Lassal," it said softly. "You will not be leaving this place tonight without us."

"You do not give me orders!" he spat at her of a sudden, getting angry. His temper flared – not one of his more shining attributes. "Now, tell me your offer or be gone! I've had quite enough of this charade."

He almost made as if to leave. It was all just a part of the game.

But then he stopped. Low laughter poured out from that vacant hood.

"You will not be leaving, Lassal," that voice told him once more. "Our only offer … is the sweet embrace of death."

He laughed. He took a step back, but laughed. His face twisted scornfully, and he had a hand on the hilt at his side.

"You think you can kill me, girl?" he sneered, putting space between them. "You think you can lure me out into the dark and butcher me like a piece of meat?"

"Yes."

"You _fool_!" he spat, a wall coming up at his back. He pulled that blade free. "Did you really think I would betray my master? Did you really think," he kept on, face cruelly twisting, "I would come alone?"

The woman had not moved. But the shadows behind her had. Lassal had watched them for some time out of the corners of his eyes. They took shape with daggers for claws, sweeping in. They pounced on that cloaked woman then.

There was a flurry of motion as he watched. Two men, hooded and cloaked in shadow, came at the woman from either side, blades flashing. He lost them in the suddenness of it. A pleased smile crossed his face at the sight.

It turned quickly into a grimace.

He would have nothing to show for that night. The thought stabbed at him painfully in disappointment. He would have nothing for all that wasted effort. Linvail would not be pleased. Not at all.

The ruse had been a sound one. The idea had been his – a clever way to see his way out of the suspicions he would have received upon being made so tempting an offer. And if they had truly given him a tempting one? Well, he might have even taken them up on it. His principles were not so strict. Indeed, it was laughable to think that they could be. But he had had a feeling that they might just leave him for dead. A pity. They should have sent someone more capable to do it. More than one. It was almost insulting.

He could take that spying wench alive, though. The thought had been in his head long before that meeting ever took place. He would bring home a small trophy at the very least.

The two other men knew what to do. At least, they had. It was somewhat even more disappointing then, when one of them abruptly hurtled past him.

The man tumbled away to the ground, and did not move. Lassal glanced back up, blinking in surprise. The other man closed again with the cloaked woman, slicing a dagger in for her throat. She wove easily about it, caught his hand in her own, and snapped the arm in two. The man cried out, collapsing down to his knees. She snatched his throat in the next instant, cutting him off. Then she crushed it in her hand.

That cowled form turned back on Lassal. As she did, a knife whipped through the space between them. It flashed under that hood, and stuck.

A smile lit his face. Perhaps their assassin had been capable enough after all.

The woman herself froze, head snapping back with the blow. She was dead. The thought was satisfying, but no more so than it had been any time before. She was not the first to try to kill him in the dead of night.

No, it had been far, far too long.

Her cowl slipped slowly back down.

He was staring at a beautiful woman's face then. He blinked. Blood trailed down along fair skin from where the knife had embedded itself into her skull. A heavy blow. Fatal. He had not lost much over the years. He waited for her to crumple into meat and bones there on the stone.

The body did not fall, though. Instead … instead that head tilted back down toward him.

He stiffened. Those dark eyes fixed with his. Then they flashed a brilliant red.

He snapped his head back. His lips twitched. Then he watched her reach a hand up and pull the knife free.

That was enough for him. He turned.

And fled.

He didn't make it a dozen steps before that knife was slicing down into his leg.

Lassal pitched forward with a cry and hit the cobbles. They slipped underneath him, the rain washing him along.

His knee sang out in jarring pain. He threw himself over. Then he stuck out his arms and started pulling himself haphazardly onward.

A few moments later, and he had reached the other side of the street, crawling on his elbows and stomach. He twisted back around, eyes darting toward the dagger jutting out of the back of his leg. He snatched it free with a sharp breath, and looked up.

That woman was gone.

He stared for a moment. Then he wrenched himself back away and ahead.

Someone was standing in front him.

Two hands snatched him up by the back before he could even think to move, hauling him up high into the air. He landed back down on his feet, pain stabbing through his one leg. He collapsed almost instantly, but the other held him fast.

It was the woman.

He looked up, spitting out a ragged breath through clenched teeth. The rain stabbed at his eyes. Hers fixed on him with unwavering intensity.

"You think we are afraid of you, Lassal?" she asked calmly.

He snatched at one of her arms. His legs were dangling out uselessly beneath him. He had lost his blade somewhere along the way.

The woman smiled down at him.

"The Shadow Thieves are more easily broken than you know …"

All at once, he was whirling up and over, whipping sideways through the night air. His back hurtled into a stone wall, and he hung there for a moment as the air shot out of his lungs. Time was swallowed up into breathless agony.

Then his heart started beating again. He plunged back down to the ground.

He lay there on his side for a few seconds, scrabbling numbly along the slick stone. His chest wasn't working, his lungs flailing. He just tried to breathe.

A set of boots clapped up in front of his eyes. He followed them up toward their master.

That woman bent down over him, crouching low. The hole in her head was gone. She smiled at him.

"You are not the first, Lassal," she cooed, rubbing a hand gently against his cheek. The flesh was like ice.

He reached a hand slowly toward her throat. She brushed it aside, though, and bent over, putting her lips to his ear.

"And you will hardly be the last."

He blinked, sucking in a trembling breath. His eyes were fixed, his teeth clenched tight.

Something tore in at his throat.

Lassal screamed. He screamed as loud as he could. But the sound died away to a whimper almost as quickly as it had come. The thunder above drowned everything out.

And he watched. He watched then as crimson dripped down his chin and throat and stained the running waters below. They flowed swiftly away down along the streets of Athkatla, and faded with the coming storm.


	2. Chapter 1 A Coming Storm

_**A Coming Storm **_

_ The moon is waning. I know that because I had ventured up to the surface today for the first time in what seems like a life time. A life time. How can one even measure such a thing? The very idea is an absurdity. To bear in mind a conception of one's own assigned length of life? It would imply foreknowledge of one's own demise, a maddening notion if ever there was one. But perhaps that is just what this is … madness._

_My experiments require more and more of my time. I have almost forgotten what the light of the sun feels like on bare flesh. I should think it would just fade with the rest. This, however, I believe comes simply from secluding myself down here in this dark hole. My work has progressed; slowly, it has progressed. I must accelerate my successes, and eliminate all failures. The drive is simple, and all consuming, but I could do no less. _

_The instinct to life is too powerful, too desperate. This cannot be my own accursed affliction. Others must feel as I do; others who feel the icy grip of death closing around their throats. Perhaps they do not. Perhaps they are too blinded to their own pitiless destruction, being as they were never blessed with the faculties to comprehend such a thing from inception. Death is so seldom the end, but in this instance, I very well fear that it must be. Perhaps that is the difference between us. They know not the true extent of the fate I am made to suffer._

_The latest group of subjects has failed. I have tried to tease the secrets of life out of death so often that I am beginning to wonder just if there is such a thing at all. Life … it is a remarkable concept, at once everlasting and perfect, again as brittle and flawed. Its existence seems a spiteful mockery of itself in every occurrence. Beyond these cold stone walls that have kept it at bay, it only consumes. It devours itself and then regurgitates. It is excrement. It is fodder. It is a pitiless, self-murdering cycle of vivacious death and decay. I fear only that it will come to an end and I will be cast out forever, and I reel at the absurdity of the thought. It is, at heart, some kind of desperate lunacy._

_It has grown quiet down here in my solitude. Or perhaps I have forgotten just how to listen. It is so basic a thing to unlearn. But the world outside has been all too restless. I can almost feel it shifting in this prison I have formed about myself, this cocoon. Time is slipping past, but with it, I must believe, will come the answers I seek. And so, I believe they might very well have._

_Something has happened. I have learned of vague rumors traveling south toward the festering cesspits above. Something has happened back where they came from, and it has caused no little stir down here in this blistering realm of self-gorging gluttony and greed. Some among them have spoken of a great catastrophe averted; something that might very well have had them butchered in the streets before long. One could only pine for the silence that might bring._

_But I digress._

_The short-lived and short-sighted vermin do not see past their own petty concerns, desperately protecting only that small spark of life and ostensive contentment they think they might have gained. I have seen past it. I look at these great and monumental tidings and see them as the whisperings of things to come. I have read something of those things to come. I believe, in them, I might have found an inkling as to the answers I seek._

_I will be watching with great interest._

_Third of Uktar, 1368_

_Dale Reckoning_


	3. Chapter 1 No Malice

_**No Malice**_

She was dreaming.

* * *

Snow fell, wafting in big, fat flakes. They moved slowly, dancing in the wind. It was so thick, she could barely see her hand in front of her.

One of those flakes struck her square in the eye. She snapped it shut, and scrubbed at it with a hand.

"Yer gonna get it."

Those words were swallowed up in the quiet snow. She took a step forward. So were her boots. They crunched down, sucking in. She only made it a few steps before she was nearly tripping herself over them.

"I don't think this is very funny," a voice answered back. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from. The dark was only punctuated intermittently by white flakes.

"I'm coming for you," she heard herself say.

"Good luck."

She had one hand out at her side, ready. She crept ahead as quietly as she could.

The snow was thick, thicker than it should have been. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that, and didn't care. She raised that hand, slowly pushing forward.

Something peeked out of the flurry. The snow swirled around it like an eddy, a hole in the storm. It took shape right in front of her.

"Gotcha!"

Her hand flew free. Before she had loosed on the other, though, something struck her in the chest. It exploded in a flash of white and she went down.

That someone else cried out in surprise, doubling over. In an instant, Imoen was back up and scooping more snow. She flung it as quickly as she could at the other's back.

"Got you! Got you! Got you!"

She was laughing at the other young woman with each toss. She could see her now, raven-black hair flying free as clumps of snow pummeled her over the shoulders. The other was crouched over, hands hung tightly about her head and desperately trying to ward away more of the white, fluffy stuff. She tried to peek out from behind them and nearly got a face full of frost.

"I got you first!" the raven-haired young woman snapped back, and only got a mouthful of snow for it. Imoen just laughed at her.

"Well, I win anyways!"

Her best friend reeled back, finally coming to stand again now that the barrage was over. She spit out some snow from her mouth. Imoen was still laughing and grinning at her.

"Why do _you_ win?" the other young woman demanded peevishly. She folded her arms over her chest and tried to look as intimidating as possible. It didn't quite work.

Imoen shook her head. She opened her mouth.

"Because you're not really here."

And closed it again.

She blinked. So did the other young woman. Those words had not been hers. She knew that, even as they came out of her mouth. Suddenly, they were both older, and standing there in the snow … someplace that wasn't Candlekeep.

The raven-haired woman looked at her, eyes wide. Her head cocked to one side, almost as if listening to the wind. The snow suddenly picked up, whipping between them. Something abruptly snatched her best friend back, and she screamed as she snapped back into the night.

It stopped snowing. There were only a few flakes left drifting down. She could see easily now. No one was standing where her best friend had been mere moments before. Instead, she was looking down at a circle of stones in the dirt, covered in a light snow. A cairn of rocks stood proudly to one side of it.

A bronze-skinned woman with tipped ears and a thick, wool coat stepped back from it. She had been settling one last stone into place on top.

"There," the woman said, bobbing her head. She sounded satisfied. The look she gave the woman beside her certainly was. That one had her back to Imoen, but she recognized those shadowy black tresses all the same.

The raven-haired woman said nothing, only stared at that stand of rocks. A man stepped up at her side, putting a hand on her shoulder. His skin was as bronzed as the first woman's, and he had the same smooth accent on his tongue when he spoke.

"He could a-ask for nothing more."

They were all gone.

She was in another tomb. The quiet pressed in all around her like a slumbering beast. She dared not speak or wake it. Instead, she looked down at the cold slab before her.

A man was lying on top of it – a dead man. His hair was long and gray, his face wrinkled with age. Both of his hands were clasped peacefully over his chest. She looked twice and she could still see the bloody wound there. Again, and it was gone. Only clean vestments remained.

She was standing at his head. When she glanced down once more, his eyes were open, and staring back at her.

"Imoen."

His mouth faded almost as soon as it had moved. Then she was back in the clearing once more.

A fire was burning. The wind had picked up, and a large man was having a hard time keeping it ablaze. Another – the one with the slightly pointed ears from before – came over and started helping him. A dark-skinned woman sat over to one side, wrapped loosely in a blanket and sipping at some tea calmly, as if the cold didn't bother her at all.

That raven-haired woman suddenly moved over and sat next to her.

"When are you going back home?"

The dark-skinned woman looked toward the other. After a moment, she smiled at the question.

"I do not know. Doth thou now find our company too burdensome?"

Imoen couldn't see the look on the raven-haired woman's face from where she stood. But she didn't answer. Instead, the darker woman spoke again.

"What wilst thou do now?"

"I don't know," the raven-haired woman answered simply. The snow started to get thicker.

"She'll go home," Imoen chimed in abruptly.

Both women turned as one toward her. Imoen only grinned back at her best friend.

"She's going home," she said again, happily. "We both are."

The raven-haired woman stared at her for a moment. Then, she smiled. And Imoen smiled back.

Both of them vanished in a sudden flurry of snow.

She was alone. Cold … and alone.

She was shivering. Her clothes were gone, and she was curled up tightly into a ball, staring at the ground. It was made out of hard stone. She didn't have to look anywhere else. She didn't want to.

"No!" she growled through her teeth.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

When she opened them again … it was still dark.

She was in a cave. It stank. She tried to look around, but instead her eyes were sucked downward. Something was sticking out of her stomach.

Pain stabbed at her abruptly, and she cried out, doubling over. She gradually toppled to the ground. Boots clapped down on stone quickly and she felt hands on her. Her best friend's face swam into view.

"It doesn't even hurt," she heard herself say, the raven-haired woman's eyes welling up with tears above her. Almost as if to spite her, pain lanced at her again, forcing her over even more as she tried to cry out. The sound caught in her throat, though. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

When she finally managed to bring her eyes up again, she was standing in front of an open room.

It was a grand ballroom, packed full with people. It was some kind of ceremony. She looked around, everyone in their finest. A man was giving some kind of speech at their head.

She didn't hear the words. She just kept her eyes roaming around.

Eventually, she caught sight of her best friend.

The raven-haired woman was there in a beautiful purple dress. Almost as if she felt Imoen's eyes on her, she turned, and smiled encouragingly at the other woman. It did not touch her eyes, though, Imoen noticed. Instead, it was for her alone.

That pain was back. She tried to cry out but nothing came. So she collapsed down to her knees instead. She was naked there in that room full of people, and looking down at a line of thick blood trailing quickly down her arm. Her chest tried to suck in several, ragged breaths. But there was nothing to breathe.

Light flared in her hands. For a moment, she was staring wide-eyed at a man sheathed in red robes. He looked her way, and barked a laugh.

"And just what was that supposed to do, girl?"

She didn't know. She just tried to turn and run away. But her feet wouldn't move. A flash of light filled her world and she was hurtling away.

"Pathetic."

She hit the ground and a dusky-skinned man leapt on top of her, dagger in hand. It flashed toward her head, but she felt it stab in her gut. She cried out, and punched him in the stomach. He grunted, and fell back.

She leapt up. But she was doubling over almost instantly, clutching at her own stomach. Blood flowed out over her hands. Tears filled her eyes, and she cried out.

Something turned that wailing cry into a scream. She howled instead. The world seemed to go a crimson red.

A knife flew free from her hand. It struck a man in the back. Then she was flying after it. Her hand came down with another small blade, stabbing out that man's throat.

Her best friend tumbled down under her and the gargling dead man both. Imoen pulled the bloody corpse off of the other woman and screamed.

"RUN, EVE!"

A snowflake slapped her in the eye. She snapped it shut, and scrubbed at it with a hand.

* * *

Her eyes slowly blinked back open and she gasped.

She was staring at a stone wall. Torchlight fluttered against it. The coppery scent of fresh blood was in the air.

Footsteps clapped away against stone. Metal creaked. A door slammed shut.

Then it was quiet.

It wasn't until she was alone that she let some of those tears finally break free.

Her hands were bound. She pulled at them, but the cords only dug into her raw flesh. Blood was trailing down one of her arms. She could see the fresh cut that had caused it there. It was shallow. It had only been meant to cause pain.

She kept tugging at those leather cords, grinding her teeth as her eyes blurred. Her arms were spread away from her, and so were her ankles. She was naked, and sweating on a cold metal table. The sweat mixed with blood, and burned. Her stomach was bleeding too.

Someone screamed. Her head whipped toward it – it could still move. The sound echoed down the dark halls outside that room and beat at her door. She recognized it after only a moment. It took her longer now. She had tried to drown it out; to forget about it. All it told her was that the other woman was still alive. All it told her was that she wasn't left alone down there anymore.

That screaming went on for a long time. She looked around, briefly, desperate for anything other than that horrible sound. Her eyes caught the rack against the wall, an assortment of every kind of knife or hook she could imagine dangling from it. One was lying next to her on the table. Her blood was still fresh on its cold steel.

Eventually, she just squeezed her eyes back shut, and cried alone there in the dark.

* * *

They had been near Candlekeep … that place where Gorion had died. She could still remember the stone circles. The image had been burned into her mind that day. His body was gone now, though. Before they had even ventured out there, they had gone to see it in the catacombs. Evelyn had stared at it for a long time. Imoen had stayed with her.

It snowed where Gorion's body once lay. The stone circles had been covered in it. They didn't disturb them when they found the stones to build a cairn there in memory of Evelyn's dead foster father. He had been murdered, and they had finally managed to track his murderer down and kill him. He had been buried beneath the city of Baldur's Gate until the grand dukes dug him up to be drawn and quartered in the public square.

Everyone in Baldur's Gate had celebrated. But not Imoen. For once, she had not quite felt like it. The whole thing made her a little sick. She remembered waiting outside the Ducal Palace as Grand Duke Eltan argued with his own guards, trying to convince them that he was not really dead and hardly looking as if he were any better off. She remembered hearing those people cheer inside as Sarevok Anchev spoke to them of a great war and conquest. She remembered his body bursting into pieces in the middle of the market. Those people had cheered then too.

Eltan and Belt had made her and her friends stay long after they had recovered, attending ceremonies, and having their names trumpeted as the saviors of the city. It had been almost dizzying. Something she could have dreamt about all her life had come true. She had been a hero. Somehow, though, she hadn't quite felt like one. All she had wanted then … was to finally go home.

Her best friend was quiet the whole way back to Candlekeep. It had not been that same creepy quiet that Imoen had noticed in those days before they had finally found and killed Gorion's murderer, though. It had been a sort of calm, thoughtful quiet. She thought maybe that was worse. Evelyn had changed. She had changed so quickly. And Imoen couldn't help but feel as if her best friend had been steadily leaving her behind all along. In those last few moments, it finally seemed as if she truly had.

Fuller had been there with them. The Watcher accompanied them from the library-fortress on the several hour journey east toward where Gorion had died. He helped them build that cairn to his memory. No one had spoken while they worked.

The snow became thick by the time night came on. Clouds had choked the sky all day, and Jaheira said that it would storm. Huge flakes had wafted down by late afternoon, and the wind picked up in the evening. It had gotten so bad that they could hardly see each other or keep a fire going. And Alturiak wasn't called the "Claw of Winter" for nothing. It was very cold.

The Watcher had been the first to go. Sometime after nightfall, he had vanished into the storm. There had been few bandits on the roads since the previous summer, but he had still decided to keep watch. One moment he had been walking just past their fire toward a tree to relieve himself. The next, he had just disappeared.

She was the first to notice. For some reason, she couldn't sleep. She said something to Khalid about it, and the man had woken his wife. While Jaheira pulled herself up from sleep, the half-Elven man crept off toward where Fuller had last been. He was the second to go.

The snow picked up even more. It had been impossible to hear just about anything above its roar. Jaheira had been restless. Then Dynaheir was suddenly missing too. Minsc had lost himself as soon as the Rashemi witch vanished. He went tearing off blindly into the storm with his massive blade in hand.

Jaheira had had that oaken staff in hand by then. Imoen was standing with her, and so was Evelyn. They waited, holding their breath in the storm. Imoen had been clutching one of her knives tightly. They had not had to wait long.

Something flitted past them to one side – a shadow through the blinding snow. Jaheira had taken a step toward it, spinning around. In that next moment, the dark snatched her away and she vanished too.

Imoen screamed after her. But it had been of little use. She clutched one of her best friend's hands tightly, and they began to back away.

Something caught under her foot before long. She went down, losing the raven-haired woman's hand. It only took her a moment to realize that it was a body – Fuller's. His throat had been torn out, freezing there in the cold.

She remembered Evelyn staring down at her and the corpse both. Both of them froze there for a moment, not daring to even breathe. Then Imoen had looked up, and her best friend's eyes went wide. She was suddenly snatched away into the night too.

She had been alone then. She had stared after her best friend for a long while, tears welling up in her eyes and then freezing. Eventually, she had let herself fall down against the cold snow. Eventually, she had just hoped it would close over her too and she would be forgotten.

She hadn't been so lucky.

When the dark came for her too, she had just closed her eyes. There had been nothing else for her to do. It took her just like all the rest.

Alive.


	4. Chapter 1 The Old Score

_**The Old Score**_

_Progress has not been what it could be. What it must be._

_I am dealing with possibilities wholly outside the realm of preexisting knowledge, as I am forced to keep reminding myself. Haste can easily spell destruction in such matters, but delay must so in this instance. I expected an answer, and, finally, I very well might have found one._

_My sister has done well in procuring these latest test subjects for me. Considering just what they have accomplished and of what at least one of them must be capable, I am both pleased and surprised. It seems that her accursed ilk can serve some useful, simple purposes after all. It is a welcome discovery, as they are far too fixated on their own hollow flesh and I have grown tired of their petty, distracting concerns._

_It has already been several weeks and I have begun to see some advancement in separating the refuse from those that might prove useful to me. I could not know just which one of the subjects was the one I sought, so I have been forced to keep them all alive for testing. They were those present and closest to the great disturbances in the north of which I had heard of some time ago. Therefore, at least one of them must be possessed of that peculiar and precious nature that I seek. What great fortune it would have been to have had the one who orchestrated the whole upset survive to fall into my charge. That one, undoubtedly, was a child of destiny. It is a pity to see such a ripe chance squandered, but in the end it was necessary so that I might learn of these developments at all. The timing, certainly, according to my calculations, has been just right._

_Teasing the essence of a god, even a dead god at that, has proven both a delicate and complicated art. I tread upon ground which few mortals have ever dared tread, and with the icy fingers of my own impending demise ever seeping into this damned, hollow flesh I cannot deny my own wretched mortality. So few of these insects bear the courage to even contemplate what I have done, or what I am going to do. In the end, it is better that way._

_The half-Elven Tethyrian female subject shows the most promise thus far. I have studied whatever traces of rumors surrounding events that I could, seeking peculiarities that might lead me in the right direction that much more swiftly. This one stood out amongst the rest as the orchestrator of events. Her subjection to the treatment has produced some interesting results. Severe rage and aggression are common symptoms. Experimentation will increase in intensity until either something manifests itself visibly or subject expires._

_The second potential, a Human male, I have identified as Rashemi. Remarkable. That such a specimen has travelled so far …_

_The subject's ability to withstand treatment has been remarkable. Whenever my efforts have succeeded in affecting his rather simple mind, his anger easily dwarfed the Tethyrian female's and so have his violent proclivities. I have a strong belief that he might very well be the one I seek. Dare I hope that there might be more than one? No. But I shall certainly know before the end._

_The third most significant subject is the Human female. A Northerner, and indigenous to the Sword Coast, I am certain. I have yet to discover just what fascinates me so about this one, but there is something strange and appealing in her case, nonetheless. I have subjected her to an increasing variety of tests, and her reactions have been … intriguing. If my thoughts prove wrong on her potential, then she has provided an enlightening test subject at the very least._

_The other three subjects have given inconsequential results thus far. I fear they will soon outlive their usefulness. A second Rashemi, Human and female, has some spark of power inside of her, but it is insignificant. The half-Elven Calishite male can barely speak, and only resists. The Human Tethyrian female, as well, does not speak but merely suffers her treatment in screaming and silence. One of them will expire soon, I am sure of it, though it is still far too early to know for certain._

_An interesting side note to be made as well has been my own reaction to prolonged exposure to the test subjects. It has been some time since last I have experienced naked, female flesh, and I am surprised at the results of my own contact with the female subjects. I have felt nothing. It is strange, and alarming, but not altogether unexpected. A few attempts have been made in greater intimacy to engender some sort of effect upon this body, but I fear the cursed shell is already all too wasted. The half-breed I will not touch, but the other three have accomplished little in the way of producing any effect. It is of little importance. I must only remember to accelerate my progress, as time is growing short. If nothing else, this treatment has proven both educational as well as serving the ends of experimentation in further agitating the subjects._

_Progress has been slow, but definite. I spend most of my waking hours in tests and performing experiments. The answer is already forming in my mind. I am certain of it. Soon enough, I will have it. Until then, however, I must continue to increase the severity of the tests. The unnecessary subjects must be terminated as soon as possible. I cannot afford to feed or sustain them all indefinitely. Nor do I have the time or the patience to wait._

_Twenty-Eighth Ches, 1369_

_Dale Reckoning_


	5. Chapter 1 Treatment

_**Treatment**_

"Awaken, child."

That voice came like claws scratching against the inside of her skull and down the backs of her eyes.

"It is time for more … experiments."

Imoen would feel the lancing pain before it even came, racing down her spine and out through each of her limbs. He would put a hand ever so gently on top of her forehead … and then he would send energy coursing through her, each and every vein and muscle bristling with raw, unbridled power – so much so that she was sure she must burst. But she just clenched her teeth, and tensed there on that table.

He electrocuted her. He burned her. The air would turn so hot around her naked flesh that she would be left there writhing, stinking sweat vaporized in an instant on her searing hot skin. Every breath would stick, burning and scouring away at her lungs. Gagging, coughing, and sputtering on ash. It was nothing but her own scorched, wasted flesh.

Then all the air would suddenly be gone. She would be left there choking on nothing until her heart slowed, and her eyes grew dim.

She didn't die, though. He wouldn't let her.

The pain didn't lessen. The agony never went away. She never got used to it. Always, he would invent new ways to torture her, new ways to induce her to a screaming wretch. She wasn't, though. She didn't. She fought as much as she could every slow, bloody step of the way.

Those knives and hooks on the walls came down. He would dig in at her with them, slicing lightly against her skin and painting it red as if her body were some overripe canvas. He would cut her open and leave her bleeding, leaking and writhing. Crimson danced across pale, naked flesh, trailing tiny rivers and rivulets in haphazard lattice-work for only their eyes to see in that dark place. She bit down on her lip against it, until her mouth was filling with blood too.

Still he cut. Sometimes he would continue that precise, painstaking work for hours. Sometimes she would see patterns in her own blood. Calling to her. Singing out in her name.

Then, when she could take no more and the room began to fade away into void around her …

… He would seal her shut.

She only caught a glimpse of his face once while he worked. And she never did so again. When she looked up, he had been staring back at her, studying her. There was no hate there. There was no malice. There was only a cold, calm certainty. He was expecting something – something from _her_. She didn't think he even saw her anymore. She wondered if he ever had.

Sometimes he would try and break her. Powerful, unseen blows would slam into her limbs, crushing her body all over in sudden, swift strikes. She would grunt against them, watching some part of her suddenly implode. Bones would break. She could hear them crushed and snapping aloud in that room. The sound echoed off the walls.

Sometimes he would use a more delicate touch.

Instead of a whole leg or arm, her hand would fly up into the air, suspended of its own accord. She would watch then as first one finger would snap abruptly sideways, impossibly so. Her face would twist, wrenching back against the sickening feel of it. Then another would bend over double, crooking in the wrong direction. Moments would drag on in between, the agony of it sinking in fully before the next bone cracked into pieces. And they did. He never stopped with just the one in each finger. No, he kept on until they were a broken, jagged mess of black- and red-stained jutting bone.

If she never once cried out before, she always did then. It always forced her to tears, bawling and mewling into the darkness. Somehow, it was worse than seeing her whole leg shattered. Somehow, it always hurt all the more. And he seemed to know just as much.

But always he fixed her broken body until it was the same as before when he was done. Always, he would make her right again as if nothing had ever happened at all. It was not to calm or reassure her, though. She wasn't so stupid anymore as to think that. It was only to remind her of just what those parts had felt like before they had been ruined. He always left the memory behind, burned into the back of her skull. Before he went and destroyed them again, piece … by piece.

And he asked her questions.

What was her name? Where was she born? What were her parents like?

He always asked the same ones. At first, she didn't answer. At first, she never dared to speak in his presence, only glaring at him as her beaten body throbbed and pain lanced through her. Then he started to go to work on her again, even as he asked those questions. He would repeat himself, slicing in or sucking the air out of her lungs in brief spurts. Sometimes he would burn away a little swath of flesh and then seal it back together again.

Where did she grow up? Had she ever killed before? What did she play when she was a child?

But after a long time – she couldn't know just how long she had been stuck down there and forgotten – she started to answer those questions. At first, she did it just to make him stop. At first, she did it just to ease some of that pain and to take away just some of his satisfaction in it. But it didn't. _He_ didn't. He would only work at her harder, asking her more and more.

What was her favorite food? Had she ever been to Baldur's Gate? What had it felt like to stab a man through the throat?

Then she started answering in a haze. Her voice became cold, and mechanical. She distanced herself as much from what he did as she could, retreating somewhere else inside her own mind. Most of the time it worked. Most of the time.

But the worst part …

The worst part would always come last.

He always had to look in her face, watching for something. Anything. When he was done with her, he would just leave without another word. Sometime later, she would hear screams echoing down the corridors outside her room. Sometimes they were Jaheira's. Sometimes they were Evelyn's, or Minsc's. Sometimes she would hear Dynaheir's and her guardian's together, howling aloud in the dark. She never heard Khalid, though. She never did.

But she never cried out. She never screamed. She never made a sound other than to unthinkingly answer those questions of his. But when he was gone … after he had finally left … she would. Every day, when she was sure that he was done with her and gone for good, she would cry herself to sleep.

But she never dared let him see those tears when he came down the next day to see her again. She started to realize … that she was always the first one he did.

* * *

Dynaheir was the first to go.

Imoen could still hear the woman's screams as she died.

She would awake from her stupor every so often to food by the door and her bonds undone. The door would be locked, but there was no hope of simply waiting for her captor with her hands free. She learned that by the end of that first meal. As soon as she had finished what little food she had been given, she had all at once begun to feel incredibly tired. Sleep pushed her steadily downward to the floor. Eventually, it swallowed her whole.

It had been the same every time.

But one day, her captor had been standing there instead of food. She had been contemplating starving herself even more just that one time so that she might have even the briefest chance at his throat. She had even gone so far as to fall asleep several times after her meals with one of those knives or hooks in her hand. It had always been gone when she awoke, bound once more, and he had punished her all the more for it – always with the blade she had picked to start.

That day, though, there had been no meal and there had been no knives. Instead, he had merely bound her with unseen hands and forced her out into the corridors for the first time since she had awoken there in that black pit.

She could barely see as he marched her out into the tunnels. The lights were dim, but they still hurt her eyes. They were down somewhere underground, she was sure. She wasn't sure why, though. And he didn't bother to tell her. He just marched her out into another, open chamber, and threw her inside a cage.

He sealed the door behind her so that she could not get free. It didn't matter much anyways. What little spark of magic she had learned could not have matched his, and not in her state. She couldn't have dared hope to get past the metal bars. They stretched over her like something meant to keep a bird from flying away. She could almost laugh at the thought. But she didn't think she could make that sound and more.

No. She was sure of it.

But then she noticed the Rashemi woman. Their captor moved away and toward Dynaheir. The witch was in a cage like Imoen's own, lying curled up naked against its far side. She looked as if she were sleeping.

Their captor looked to Imoen for several moments, drawing her eyes that way. Then he turned around, and went to work on the other.

Dynaheir had screamed herself awake. Her voice had been cracked and hoarse, her face battered and bruised. She looked very much as if she had not been "fixed" as consistently as Imoen had. But she still managed to clutch fiercely at those bars as lightning surged through them, scouring the flesh on her bones and burning it all to ash.

They continued on like that for a long while. Those eyes were on Imoen every moment they could spare from their brutal work, studying her. Dissecting her from across the room. At first, she tried to look away. But those screams would tear at her every time that she did. Eventually, they just stopped.

The smell of roasting flesh had been thick in the air. When Imoen was sure that the other woman must be dead – when she was sure that there was nothing else to that long silence … she looked.

Their captor had not stopped his work. He had kept on tormenting a corpse long after it should have been dead, staring at her the whole while. Imoen only looked to the dead woman in the other cage then. The sight of that stinking meat was all that was left.

That dark flesh was now black. It had all been burned away to cinders. It caked her like a second skin atop her bare flesh, and there was almost nothing human left about her. Imoen stared, and she felt her stomach turn more than it ever had in those past weeks.

But then those eyes fluttered back open.

Their captor had stopped. He just waited, and watched. As Imoen watched herself, Dynaheir blinked her eyes lazily upwards. They were milk white and all but oozing out of her skull like broken eggs. Her cracked and burned lips creaked upwards into a faint smile.

"Imoen," a voice that was barely more than a rasping whisper breathed out, and just as quickly died. There was nothing human left about it at all.

A piece of ash that used to be skin broke away and fell even as that mouth tried to move.

Their captor turned back in the next moment. He raised his hands again, and light flared into that cage. Whatever was left of the Rashemi witch burst into pieces, and simply disintegrated there before her eyes.

She cried then. She could not help the tears that burst suddenly into her eyes. She slammed her fists into the bars of her cage, scrabbling wildly and angrily against them. But there was no strength left in her for it. Her body just slumped back down quickly enough.

She wept there in the cage, wishing suddenly that he might just turn and do the same to her. Wishing suddenly that it might all just end there and be done with. There was no reason. There was no answer. The question ripped through her skull, and she was so desperate to fling it right out at that monster. It was the first time she had ever broken down in front of him.

He did not give her release, though. He did not give her anything. Instead, a howl abruptly raged through the halls instead.

Someone roared out. It was the loudest sound she had ever heard in her life. For a few moments, it even drowned out the pain and the sound of her own sobbing. She didn't bother to look up, but her captor went flying away from that room, leaving her alone.

It didn't matter. There was nowhere to go. She had just lay there, and cried.

* * *

Khalid was next.

He was already dead when she found him in the room with them that day.

There had been a second table opposite her. At one time or another, her captor had kept his knives there, ready and fresh while he worked with others. That time, she awoke to the dead half-Elven man staring at her instead.

The man set to torturing the corpse, right in front of her. There had been nothing to be gained by it. He studied her all the while anyways. Imoen hardly cared if she broke down that much more in front of him. Khalid's dead eyes drew fresh tears welling up in her own. She choked, barely able to breathe and shaking her head slowly where she was bound. It was not so terrible to watch as Dynaheir's slow death. And, somehow, it was so much worse.

Dynaheir's had been slow, and painful. She had not had to see Khalid's. But that hardly made it any easier. She remembered hearing Jaheira screaming sometime earlier. She briefly wondered if the older woman even knew that her husband was dead at all.

He took those knives. He took those knives and hooks and he went about his work as if every blow were one chiseled into her own flesh as well. He would cut and look over at her, saying, "Do you see?" Cut and say, "Do you see?"

But she didn't. Not what he seemed to want her to anyways. She wrenched at her binds and pleaded with him to stop. She screamed at him when he did not. Her voice grew hoarse and ragged, and her eyes blurred until she couldn't make out a thing. He kept on until they had cleared again. The sounds never stopped. And then all she saw was the dead body of a man who had been almost like a second father to them slowly hacked to pieces there on that cold, metal table.

Each blow stung her worse than the last. She felt it as if it were in her own flesh. The sounds certainly helped to make it so. Luckily, the dead man himself was beyond feeling anymore.

He kept on for hours. The blood ran thick – putrescent. After a while, she ended up just staring into those milky dead eyes, so uncaring for just what was being done to the rest of him. Tugged in nauseating rhythm with that tearing. But the questions faded, and so did the steady ripping noises. Every so often, the dead man's face would still twitch with the pull of a harsher stroke.

She remembered him when they had first met in the Friendly Arm Inn so long ago. She remembered him protecting them, saving them, time and time again. He had never turned away. He had never run. He had always stood between her and Evelyn and anything that had come their way.

And now he was dead. She just wished that it had been someone else that had done it. Somehow, she suddenly thought, that would have almost made it easier to bear. She didn't know why.

But, eventually, she just looked away. She fixed back on that man cutting away at the corpse. His eyes were waiting for her there when she did. They were ice cold, and blue.

"I'm going to kill you," she whispered. She barely more than breathed the words. She didn't care how pitiful it sounded. She didn't care how it happened. All that she knew was that someday, somehow … she would be the one to do it. Their eyes fixed for a long time then.

He didn't say anything. Nothing at all.

He just kept on cutting.


	6. Chapter 1 A Breakthrough

_**A Breakthrough**_

_I have made a startling discovery. It appears that I have completely underestimated the Tethyrian female subject. With the Rashemi female and Calishite male finally terminated, I had been sure that the last of the inconsequential subjects was soon to follow. She did not. In fact, she has defied all previous expectations._

_The Rashemi male has thoroughly outlived his usefulness. Upon the expiration of his female counterpart, I was forced to intercede before the subject was able to escape from his confinement. He had actually managed to bend the steel bars around his cage and force his way out. However, he did not get far before I apprehended him once more. At the time, I had thought only to subdue him. It was not so difficult, even given his heightened agitated state. But I might as well simply have put him down like the base creature that he is. I should have paid stricter attention to the nature of my subjects upon first acquiring them. This one is known as a berserker from where he comes. It is something of an oddity, but all too mortal nonetheless, and it certainly explains the abnormal displays of strength and fortitude. There is no divinity at play here. If I had known of this sooner, I might have saved myself much time and effort. But that has been the purpose of these tests, has it not? I will terminate the subject myself tomorrow, now that I am certain that he is no longer of any use to me._

_I had begun to question the value of the Tethyrian half-Elven female subject recently as well. She has not progressed beyond my preliminary assessments. It is distressing to think that I have formed such misguided suppositions from the very beginning, and overlooked so much that now seems all too obvious. Perhaps I will dispose of her tomorrow as well. I have not yet decided. I remember that when I first began I had only a vague notion of for what I was looking. It is fortunate, however, that I have finally found it._

_The Human female from the North does still elude me. I had expended two of the weaker subjects in an effort to elicit a stronger reaction from her, and was not disappointed. Yet, her responses were not precisely what I had expected. I am still uncertain as to what to make of it. The near escape of the Rashemi subject distracted me too greatly to see its immediate results, but I was not displeased with my efforts in utilizing the Calishite. The Human female's reactions have been more … tamed … than I would have liked. Still, I have not lost hope in her potential. I have kept a careful and studious eye upon her, and will continue to do so. The gem of my findings, though, has truly come as a surprise. In retrospect, I now see the signs as all too obvious._

_The epiphany came as I was administering daily treatment to the subject. The severity of this treatment had been meant to be lethal, as it had been with the other two I disposed of so recently. The Tethyrian was to be a third, and hopefully final, test for the Northern female. Somehow, however, the subject was able to resist. Soon after, she began exhibiting strange symptoms. These were stranger than I had ever experienced with any of the other subjects in their sessions. Where the Rashemi male had merely bent solid metal, this subject actually managed to tear her cage nearly in two before I was able to bring her back under control. Needless to say, I forwent any further experimentation for the day. Instead, my hopes pine all for tomorrow._

_But this is it. I finally have my answer. This latest development has assuaged my mind of all doubt. My work, as tedious and painstaking as it has been all of these years, is finally nearing completion. I need only conduct several more tests, perfect the process of transfusion, and–_

1 Mirtul, 1369 DR


	7. Chapter 1 Rattling Chains

_**  
Rattling Chains**_

Her eyes snapped open.

The walls shook. Something thundered deep down inside them. It shook the whole place. Dust sifted down like rain from the ceiling. That was what had woken her up.

Dirt sprayed her face. It stuck to clammy flesh and damp, matted hair. She winced.

The room shook again. She blinked, and stared up at the ceiling. She was still strapped to that table. Her arms jerked inside the bonds, tensing. But they were still as tight as ever.

Then something exploded.

The floor heaved. So did the walls. She sucked in a breath as that rack of knives suddenly came loose. She watched it toppled over, and come crashing down.

She squeezed her eyes back shut.

Metal cracked against metal table. All at once, steel went flying everywhere. Her head flinched one way. Something slipped across it, loosing fresh blood behind. She cried out, and twisted toward the other. Another knife slapped the metal just in front of her nose. It clattered away.

Then it was over.

She lay there for a moment, tears soaking her cheeks. She wasn't sure just when they had begun. She had stopped feeling them so long ago.

There was blood on her face. She winced at it, twisting her head to one side as if she might smear it away off on the table.

Instead, she saw _it_.

Wicked, gleaming steel slithered in through her blurring eyes, melding with pale flesh across the cold table. She blinked those eyes once more. Then it came into sight. That metal glinted in the low light. A sickle blade. It wrapped itself tenderly around her wrist, hugging it tight. The skin came away a little around it, recoiling. She could see blood tracing the steel.

She tried to move her hand. It flopped there, uselessly. Her wrist twitched, and the sickle teetered to one side. She could feel it scrap bone.

Her hand curled in on itself. Her fingers were grazing the hilt of the blade then. They slid up along it slowly. Gently. And they began to slide it free.

The steel came away, slapping down against the table in her hand. Those fingers swallowed it up into her palm. And it turned around.

That gleaming, sharp tip was still warm with her blood. It grazed the leather binds ever so lightly, caressing. Her wrist worked. It dug a little deeper, spreading a little crimson in its wake. She stared at it. The motion was mechanical. Eventually, some of that leather began to fray.

The room shook. It was fainter this time. She ignored it.

It took days. But she was patient. If there was one thing she had had to learn in that terrible place – it was patience. That sickle blade kept working its fine tip back and forth, back and forth. Back and forth. Back … and forth.

And then it dug into flesh.

Her hand nearly dropped the knife in surprise. Fresh blood welled up around steel, but she couldn't feel it. She stared for a moment. Then her hand leapt free.

She was twisting over and going to work on the other hand in the next instant. Blood surged vengefully through her veins and she found the strength. Knives and daggers were scattered all over the table. She had no trouble finding another to cut herself free.

Her other arm burst out of its binds. She was bouncing up so fast she felt dizzy. But that didn't stop her from sawing, hacking, and clawing into the binds around her ankles as well.

She was free.

She rolled over and off the table. Her side hit the floor with a smack. She didn't care. A few knives clattered down after her.

Her chest rose and fell. For a moment, the rest of her did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the sickle blade in her one hand. She sucked in air through her nose and forced it back out again. Then she climbed to her feet.

The room was empty. She threw herself at the door almost at once. She was naked, pale, stinking, and covered in sweat, but she didn't care. She collapsed down against the metal, almost too weak and light-headed to even stand for a moment. Her hand found the bolt lock. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing deep. And then she tried to turn it.

Somewhere, something else exploded. It shook the whole room this time, violently. She tumbled back down off her feet and to the floor, rolling over. Torchless lights flickered overhead. A chunk of stone collapsed with them. They hit the ground just beside her and she threw herself over the other way.

It subsided. Her eyes shot up. And the door started to open.

Words sprang to her lips without thinking. A hand flung forward and so did her voice. They burst into a flare of light out into the corridor.

She clawed her way back to her feet. There was no one there, though. Just the burnt stone and twisted metal of the opposite wall.

The breath caught in her throat as she stepped up to the threshold.

Still no one came.

She slipped a hand up to either side, and edged her eyes ever so slowly past the edge. They looked one way, and then the other. But the hallway outside was empty. She was alone.

She started to breathe.

Then she threw herself out into the dark.

Her feet were pushing forward and down. The dim light above died to nothing and then gleamed once more. She hesitated for a moment. Only a moment. Then she crept on ahead, bare feet to the cold metal-meshed ground. Her breathing was suddenly all that filled the stillness. She swallowed it down as much as she could.

The dark wavered. She kept on. It faded in and out with the light. She looked back over her shoulder. The room had vanished easily enough behind.

Funny … somehow she had thought she would never be rid of it. It just wouldn't let her go. And now she felt so suddenly, utterly alone.

Funny.

Her feet kept on. It was easy to do so now that she was free. It would have been harder to stop.

That was the way that she remembered. She thought so, as her head came back around. The few times she had been out, she had kept what little sense she could toward that place around her. It had helped take her mind from everything else. It was the first thing she had learned.

A door passed to one side. The sickle dagger hung bloody in her one hand. Her feet trudged forward, brushing steel floor.

She saw it. It didn't take so long.

A doorway gaped at the end of the passage. The light was lower inside. It gaped like a yawning maw.

She stopped.

The breath came shallow in her throat. All of her skin tightened about her like a noose, choking muscle and bone beneath. Her blood ran cold. And she swallowed.

"Imoen."

She froze.

Then she was suddenly twisting around, sickle knife whipping through air before she could stop it. It hissed through empty space, though. And she was left staring.

There was no one there.

She blinked, bewildered. Then she heard footsteps behind.

She spun back, and those clanging footsteps turned into a man before she could help it. He flew out into the corridor from another ahead next to the door. And he stopped, hard.

Twin eyes whipped toward that dark space beyond the open doorway. They rounded on her next.

The man opened his mouth … and exploded.

Green light flashed in at his side. In the next instant, he was so much dust bursting into the wall. It billowed out in a violent cloud, slapping the metal wall. The steel melted away at its touch, twisting. Imoen tumbled over backward to the ground, and it all rushed over. Another moment, and it was gone.

She froze on her elbows, and stared. But there was nothing left. It had all sifted down in dry motes through the metal-grated ground. She watched for a moment. The metal of the side wall had dissolved away too, leaving a bore the size of that man. It looked like nothing so much as something had eaten away solid steel.

His black silhouette was etched there forever in metal and stone.

She pulled herself up, slowly. Her muscles wouldn't work anymore. She forced them toward the wall, collapsing down against it to keep herself up. Then she slid along toward the edge of that other corridor. Everything that was her went ice cold and numb when she got there. She froze once more.

Her eyes fell down on her hand with that sickle blade. It was shaking, wildly. She swallowed, and willed it to stop.

No such luck.

Eventually, she edged one eye around the corner. Palm flat to the wall, she slid her head along in a crawl. She peaked into that corridor.

It was empty too.

Her chest started pulsing again raggedly, and she let out a trembling breath. Footsteps cut through the silence, though, and she stilled instantly.

Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. Then opened. The sound was striding away. Briskly. Purposefully.

It was him.

_Don't look_.

She twisted back around and out of sight. He was already gone. Her body slumped. There had been no explosions for some long minutes.

Her eyes drifted back down to the knife in her hand. The knuckles were an angry white. That hand still shook, a little. She squeezed her eyes shut once more, and swallowed hard.

That open doorway was in front of her. She slipped inside in the next moment. It was dark. No torches burned anywhere. Instead, those low, gleaming blues and yellows winding along in thin cords through the ceiling above continued to fade in and out, pulsing like a beating heart. They were erratic now, slow and irregular. She crept through the wavering shadows they cast into that dark place.

The cages were still there. She remembered them. Suspended between floor and ceiling by thick chains. Some were burned, others spattered with blood. In between flashes of black, she saw one rent all but in two. Another still had a mutilated corpse in it. She didn't recognize that one.

Her bare feet carried her around and away. She looked hastily inside each cage, moving along the edge of the room and barely breathing. The light was too low to see far. She checked each, one by one. And, when she was done, she found nothing.

The stillness was overwhelming. She had to catch her breath for a moment, steadying herself back against the stone wall. One of the cages swung ever so slightly, chains rattling faintly. She looked at it. And she pushed herself back up.

She didn't know where to go. She found another door, this one leading away into another corridor she didn't remember. She stared down that way for a moment, wavering.

Then she heard it again.

"Imoen."

She came back around, sickle knife first. It thrust out into the air before her and she held it there at arm's length. It shook.

But there was still no one there.

Her eyes darted back about the room. The lights dimmed. She started to back away toward that corridor behind. Her other hand felt out for the door, pulling the rest of her towards it. She turned back.

The door closed behind her, slowly. She shuddered as it did so, eyes fluttering closed.

_Don't stop_.

She let out a trembling breath. Then she picked herself back up and was moving carefully the other way.

That new hallway stretched on beneath the low light. Her bare feet felt like ice. She was afraid to go near the stone and metal of the walls – afraid to touch them anymore. She could feel his touch on them as if it were breath on her skin, steel knives for fingers waiting to caress. Cold. Ugly. She shivered down her spine.

The corridor branched at the end. She peered down one way – the path turned rather abruptly. No doors. No rooms. When she looked back the other way, something moved.

She ducked down, catching her breath. It was shadow. Shadow in the low light crawling across the far end of the hall where it turned. It was just a little darker than the rest of the stone wall, sliding across it and away. Slanting back. It moved slowly.

That something slipped away. She crept closer, hiding behind the other corner nearest that stretch of the corridor. The shadow pulled even farther away, fading from sight. She could have almost wondered if it had been some trick of her eyes … but the unsteady scuffling of footsteps forced that thought from mind. Something shuffled on down that passage.

It wasn't him.

_Move._

Her hands pushed away from the wall. She was out into that corridor and moving down toward the bend and that drifting shadow. Metal jarred, clinking somewhere ahead where it had gone. She heard it scrape – a long, drawn-out sound. Then a grunt. She reached the bend.

The knife was cold in her fist, her own blood on the steel turned to ice. Her shoulder slid up along the stone of the wall. The lights dimmed. And she slowly peeked around.

It didn't take her long to find that thing. A piece of the ceiling had collapsed down toward the floor, twisted steel hanging like broken mesh over chunks of stone and dust that had fallen and scattered. An open doorway stood beside the breach. The inside was dark. Beyond the hole a figure crouched, a shadow hugging the dark floor.

She stared for a moment. Blackness swallowed the hallway briefly. Then she could see the thing more clearly. Its back twitched, curled over against the floor. A head bobbed beyond it, jerking first one way, and then the other. The jaw was moving. Its back was to her, but she could hear it whispering there in the dark.

The breath had died in her throat as she watched. The thing's motions were quick – furtive. Wiry muscles twitched, seeming without control. Those words drifted back to her, too soft and insidious to hear. Desperate. Angry. Terrified. The blood began to drain from her face, and she swallowed thickly.

_Kill it_.

No.

She shook her head.

Not that way.

She started to edge herself back and away. She only made it a step before something else resounded dully deep in the core of that place. It shook the walls, and dust sifted down all over, raining to the ground. The thing in the corridor jerked its head upwards, a gargling growl slipping free from its throat.

It was him. She knew it as soon as she felt that place shift around her. It was him. All that terrible power …

He was tearing everything apart.

The light faded.

And when it came back, two black eyes glinted at her from the shadows.

She froze.

_MOVE._

All at once, the thing let loose a blood-curdling shriek, arms flung wide. It twisted around toward her, hopping on bowed legs. Then it was bounding on all fours forward, tongue lolling and throat seething.

It came at her in a rush, crooked limbs flying every which way. The space between them vanished in an instant. It leapt up at her throat like an animal, howling. Then it came slamming back down.

The knife was up between them in an instant. Sickle blade swept into flesh and stuck on bone. Something struck her across the shoulder and face. Her hand with the dagger was pulled up and over her, the rest of her body forced the other way. They twisted her around, and that thing flew over. They both hit the ground sprawling.

Someone was screaming. It wasn't her. She had no breath in her lungs to scream. The sound filled the corridor, but that thing's snarling drowned it out quickly enough. It was moving again almost instantly, wild limbs flying out. Imoen rolled over onto her bare stomach. Her eyes found it, hurling itself back up on flailing arms and legs. It flung itself at her once more.

Sinewy muscle and bone slammed into her full force. Her lungs shriveled to nothing. She twisted over and down again, the thing atop her. It thrashed like a beast, and she felt it start tear into her naked flesh.

She screamed.

The air around them lit up with fire. The thing howled. In an instant, it was flying back over and away. It struck the ground in a heap of flames, roaring and screaming and shrieking as it writhed. The stink of roasting flesh filled the air. And those tormented cries drowned everything out.

After a few moments, the sounds faded to a maddened snarl. The thing began to die.

She struggled back to her feet, staring at the blackening husk beneath her. She watched it burn to cinders. Her eyes stuck there as she sucked in air, transfixed by it. Charred flesh melted around a skull and its gaping jaw, still struggling to cry out as the burning chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the flames. They died out only as that wretched thing finally lay still. Only its flesh continued to move, sliding and crinkling as the fire died as well.

The sickle dagger jutted out from beneath the thing's ribs. She snatched it free. The flames had barely touched it. When they died, that screaming still filled the hallway.

She choked, her head whipping back around. That screaming tore down the hallway at the walls, piercing and desperate. Howling. Shrieking. She was racing down the corridor after it instantly.

She dashed beneath that collapsed ceiling, twisted through the open door, and flung herself into the room. And came up short as soon as she did.

Her feet stopped dead in their tracks. The breath caught in her throat. And she froze again.

A woman stood there, crouched over and bent in upon herself in grotesque ways. Her whole body shook, trembling. Twitching. Like the man-thing in the corridor. Her hair was thick, frayed, and unruly. She held a matted clump in one clench fist, the place where it had been torn from raw and bloody in the side of her head. The crimson mess glimmered blue-black in the low light.

That head jerked one way and then another. She was speaking.

"Gone … gone, gone, GONE!" she hissed, thrashing. Her words flung free like acid in a tangled jumble. "Everything! All of it now! The insides – the _insides …_! See how they bleed? She used to _bleed_!"

The woman shrieked the last, laughing, and thrust a pale arm out. Imoen gasped, but the other did not even notice her. Instead, she kept drawing the broken shard of dirty glass across the limb, freeing more of the black blood within. When she was done …

Imoen swallowed.

When she was done …

… When she was done slicing herself open, the woman tore into her own skin and started ripping it away in clumps like wet parchment.

Imoen threw up there on the floor.

She spun away from that mess. The other woman did not scream. She only kept tearing into herself like a wild animal, eyes burning bright. Imoen hobbled away, too sick to think.

"See?" that voice called after, cackling aloud to itself. "Nothing but flesh – and blood – and _bone_! NOTHING!"

Imoen stumbled out into the broken hallway, catching herself against the far wall. Gagging and retching. It almost drowned out the echoes of that wet tearing sound from the room behind. Almost.

It didn't last much longer before all fell silent once more. When it did, Imoen thought she heard one last dull thud from that room behind. Then she threw herself from the wall and staggered on down the hall and away.


	8. Chapter 1 Broken Bonds

_**Broken Bonds**_

_Thump_.

Dark eyes wafted briefly open. A mind worked fiercely behind them, its will seeping through into the waking world even though the body was sluggish and unresponsive. It took in a gray-black landscape of hooks and chains and knives and bars. Then those heavy lids fell shut once more.

_Thump_.

A muscle twitched. Flesh above the eye moved. Teeth brushed each other in close-packed rows ever so slightly. There was the acrid taste of dirty sweat and aged bile on the tongue. It had nearly shriveled to death in that dry, aching mouth.

_Thump-thump._

Fingers moved. Their skin brushed along something hard. Cold. Uneven, flaking flesh over smooth bone. No. Not bone. Metal. Rusting metal. The hand was pressed up against it, those fingers wrapped tightly around.

_Thump-thump_.

The sea of hard gray shapes made soft and hazy swam into view again. Those eyes rolled to one side, skull sliding roughly against steel bars. The rough, jarring sensation of it came across a distance like an echo. Then the floor greeted their sight, blurring as it faded in and out. That jaw kept trying to push down the thickness in its throat.

_Thump-thump_.

The sound was deafening. Or everything else had gone absolutely silent. It pounded in the ears, a blunt, thundering reminder that death still would not come. That icy breath had wafted so close before, chilling bone and freezing blood. Terrible. Tormenting. Chiding.

_Thump_.

The eyes drifted back up. There was a force behind them – a force beyond the useless, broken body that housed them. They dragged the head up, forcing it to stay awake and watch.

_Thump-thump._

Something moved. Beyond the cage. There was another shadow shifting through the stillness. It drifted in and out of the dim light, vanishing for what felt like hours. Then it was back again, circling steadily closer. Purposely.

_Thump-thump_.

It reached the cage. The eyes fell away, willing some other part to move. Desperation started to cloud its every other feeble thought, dashing them to pieces as it had so many times before when the other came. They fled in droves, leaving only a slavering, wounded, pitiful beast left to fend for itself. A hand responded to the hopeless cry, but all it could do was tense about the bar it already held fast.

_Thump … thump_.

The shadow was huge, towering over that prison. Ready to swallow it whole. Muscle tensed, and what had not wasted away corded in that arm clutching at metal bar. Tongue jerked to life and spat a word like a beacon of fire to ward away the darkness.

"_Khalid_ …"

_Thump-thump_.

Her voice was hoarse. There was so little left to it, or the rest of her. What remained of her. Still, she pulled herself up. Somehow. She managed to struggle against those bars just so.

_Thump …_

The shadow was pounding against the metal cage. Swift, vicious blows. Steel trembled beneath her fingers.

_Thump … thump …_

Her vision still swam, every sound sloshing toward her as if through a vast sea of thundering gray. A bar snapped violently one way, rent and broken. Another followed it a few hours later.

_Thump …_

She bared her teeth. The massive shadow shivered in anticipation.

_Thump …_

Another bar bent in half, screeching dully. She dragged her numbed body up even farther, facing the other with all that she could. What little that she could now.

_Thump …_

The space between them was suddenly clear. She readied a hand free to claw at that thing, snarling at it even as her hand refused her.

_Thump-thump_.

The shadow pressed forward, sweeping in. It reached one massive limb to take her.

_Thump …_

And she let it.

… _Thump_.

That world of steel bars and blinding, deafening memories of gray, visceral pain melted away. She drifted.

And then, abruptly …

… She flopped back down on the cold stone of the living, breathing realm once more.

The first thing Jaheira did … was gag.

She choked. She sucked in huge mouthfuls of dank, fetid, and stinking air. It had no smell of earth. Instead, it was the decrepit tang of stone and iron, of wasting flesh and dying dreams, screaming pain and stained blood on steel. She choked on it, sucked in more, and spluttered, retching. Eventually, she had enough strength to lift her head toward her savior.

The light was low, but she blinked and could just see. The purple tattoo-stained head, shaven and massive, that greeted her from atop a crouching mammoth of a man was the first familiar sight she had had in months. And the last she had expected to ever see in that world again.

"Minsc."

She managed to bite the word, spitting out the giant Rashemi's name with another breath of that foulest air.

"The little Elven lady still has some fire in her belly. That is good."

Jaheira had the cruel stone of the floor at arm's length, still sucking at the taste of what little freedom she had that wafted in the air. She hacked, coughing. Her body had turned against her now that it was free to move again. It felt as if it had lain in a stupor for so long. She had almost forgotten it.

Her dark eyes twisted up briefly to the giant Rashemi. The man was sitting over her, crouched atop his huge haunches. She studied his eyes for a moment, searching for the trace of madness there she was sure a simple-minded beast such as he should have finally succumbed to after so long. Eventually, she turned back to the floor.

The room was silent but for the sound of her there in the stillness. It was far too long before she managed to steady herself enough to speak.

"How," she gagged, "how did you get free?"

She shook her head, and let her eyes flash up to meet his.

That broad face was grim, the skin sallow and paled from its dusky hues. Crisscrossed in scars – too many that she had seen cut open and a few healed herself – it twisted ever so slightly after a moment, and that trace of madness she sought flared bright in the black eyes beneath his thick brow. It was not born of insanity, though, she realized quickly enough. It was the feverish gleam of rage.

"The bars!" he growled, not seeing her just then. He was baring his teeth. "They bent and twist in Minsc's hands! They could not hold him back from fistfuls of sweet, sweet justice for his witch!"

The man was snarling like a beast at the last, all but foaming over his lips. Jaheira blinked away, and tried to work her wasted muscles up from the ground.

"Where are the others?" she managed. "Did you … did you _see_ any of them?"

But the man wasn't listening to her just then. Instead, the giant Rashemi was baying aloud to the pitiless shadows.

"Dynaheir!" he wailed. "Minsc's charge and friend!" He was shaking that massive, tattooed head. "She is … she is dead. And Minsc is a failure as her guard!"

Jaheira had gotten as far as her knees. Her body – wasted and useless as it was after months spent in endless torture and captivity – fought her with every breath. Her anger and determination were all that sustained her. Anger at that weakness. Determination not to let it consume her ever again.

There was another cage in front of her. Another prison. The charred remains of some dead thing lay scattered within. She snatched the bars in both her hands, and pulled herself up.

Every moment was agony. Her arms were weak, all but useless. She gritted her teeth, grunted loud into the dank stillness, and forced herself up with ragged breaths. Her blood churned like water over rapids in her veins. Her heart beat like thunder inside her ears. Eventually, they managed to bring her up, gasping, and leaning hard against steel in the low light.

The room was large, but empty. Only the familiar chains upon the walls, the intimate knives scattered all about, and the almost comforting closeness of the barred cages filled that void. She squeezed her eyes shut against them. And when she opened them again, the man was still on his knees, groaning into nothingness.

"Trapped! Her spirit," he mewled, "her spirit is trapped in a cage created by Minsc's failure! I was to guard her, but she … she …"

"Minsc."

She sucked in a ragged breath.

"He … killed her!" that booming child's voice continued on unheeding. "Minsc knows not who he is, but … but he _must_ redeem himself!"

"Minsc," she tried again, exhausted.

"Dynaheir is … she is dead!" he roared, twin fists clenched and raised before him into the air.

His teeth glared white behind twisted lips into the blackness.

"And Minsc will not rest!"

"Minsc!"

She snapped with whatever little was left of her, and he quieted. Abruptly. He seemed to remember she was there, and hastily twisted about to face her. His large face had suddenly gone slack.

She stared him down for several moments, barely keeping herself on her feet. He calmed, slowly. The fires still burned in his eyes, though. Dulled, but not gone. Not at all.

"Do you know where the others are?" she summoned the strength to ask again. She was all but pressed flat against the cage beneath the weight of her own head. Her feet only grazed the floor in vain.

The Rashemi stared at her, and then shook his great head. "Little Imoen. Evelyn," was all he said for a moment. "Minsc has not seen them in so long. Only Boo." His eyes fell back down to where they had been, fixed on the blackened remains in the cage beneath her. "The evil wizard has taken his witch. Justice will be had for them too."

Jaheira turned her head down toward the bars. He remembered the giant Rashemi's companion well enough. A Hathran. One of the witches that reigned in the sisterhood leadership cult of his spirit-filled land of Rasheman far to the east. She had been quiet. Patient, and calculating. She had known far more than she had ever let on in their time together. Jaheira had seen it in the woman's eyes. She had been formidable, and with powerful arcane magicks at her beck and call. If she was dead as her counterpart claimed … there was no telling just how many of the others had even survived. The girl, Imoen, at least … was not made of nearly firm enough stuff to take such torture for so long.

She swallowed, thickly, and cast those thoughts from mind. So the Rashemi witch had fallen. It was the foolish risk she had taken in following the foster child of her old Harper friend Gorion for so long without any willingly given reason. Her help had been appreciable at times, but there was nothing for it now.

She looked at the Rashemi.

"Minsc," she began again, weaker this time. Her priority now was escape. And survival. Whatever had happened, she owed her dead friend Gorion her strength in finding his daughter and getting them out of there before their captor realized they were free. And Khalid. She had to find him first.

"Help me stand," she ordered the giant of a man.

He stared at her for a moment, blinking. Then he was back on his feet, massive frame having weathered those months of imprisonment far better than hers. He scooped her up in one arm, and helped her back to her feet.

She swayed, but he steadied her. It was a pitiful, wretched feeling of helplessness. Even after so long at the mercy of a madman, she could not shake her own disgust. The other seemed not to mind, though, and that only made it all the worse. He had the mind of a child, and could barely grasp the events transpiring around him. Somehow, in that moment, she had inherited the maternal role of his late keeper, but he kept her up with his much greater strength, cradling her feeble form like a newborn babe. She felt like some wretched … _thing_.

But that didn't stop her.

Minsc continued to stare down at what she suspected must have been his witch. The woman was nothing but ash now, and Jaheira tugged him away and toward the door leading out of that grave. The living still needed them. And the dead would have to wait.

"Move," she told him, as firmly as she could while hanging off his arm.

Eventually, he turned away.

* * *

"Imoen …"

She stumbled to a stop, catching herself against the doorframe. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and she blinked as she twisted her head back around. The dark hallway behind swam in her eyes. There was still no one there. She pushed herself ahead into the room.

It was dark. There were no lights in here. She stuck a hand out, reaching for anything. That space was closed around her, she could feel it. Her fingers alighted on wood, fumbling along sanded, smoothed, and polished seams to worn leather bindings and enameled script.

Books. A shelf of books.

She was in some kind of study.

The air was cold, but dry. It had an odd taste on her tongue. Something she had not tasted since Candlekeep.

_Home …_

Desperate pain and longing welled up suddenly within her. It overwhelmed her.

_Not now._

Her body started moving again with a jerk. She found her way carefully between the shelves and reading tables, picking her bare feet carefully along the tome – and parchment – strewn stone floor. It reminded her so much of Candlekeep. Dusty old tomes all over, bookcases nearly spilling. It was like she had never left.

But she had, hadn't she?

Had she?

_Yes._

She just wanted to go home again. It didn't matter where it was, just so long as she could call it home.

_Move._

She blinked.

Xan had taught her a little trick. She remembered it then as she prodded around in the dark. He had travelled with them for a while, an Elven mage from the western stronghold of Evereska helping them survive while on his own mission to uncover the truth behind the iron shortages along the Sword Coast. She had grown up with magic all her life, but never once before had she felt as if she might try her hand at it. When she had asked him to teach her a little that one night so long ago, he had surprisingly indulged her for a time. He had died back in Baldur's Gate, half a broken sword and a dagger punched through his chest.

A few words flowed over her lips, whispering in the stillness. Then light flared in her hands, beating back the shadows with a vengeance. She had to blink back the brightness of it for a few moments, twisting her eyes away. Eventually, though, she was looking around at that cluttered space around her. A small library of its own.

She stood there for a few moments, taking it in. It was a different side to her captor than she had seen. Though she had recognized well enough the magicks he had played upon her down in the dungeons below. They were powerful. Far beyond her meager tricks. Far beyond anything she had ever seen Xan or Dynaheir or even Gorion conjure up.

And they were all dead now.

Knowledge was there. Some harmless. Some dark. She could feel it as she swept around with that light glowing aloft in her hand. Books were scattered everywhere, many of them with their pages wrinkled from overuse, open in odd places and scribbled in. One or more had been tossed against the walls in frustration. They lay helplessly on folded and creased pages on the floor. She stood there staring. Wondering. Just what he had been up to. Just what he had wanted with them from the start. He had killed for it without a second thought.

The memory of his hands upon her was overwhelming of a sudden, sickening. She swallowed against it, squeezing her eyes shut.

It passed.

Slowly.

Then, she didn't care anymore. She didn't care what he wanted. She didn't care why he had brought them all there in the first place. All she cared about was escaping. All she cared about was finding what was left of her friends and making sure they got out of there before those sick, twisted hands ever laid a finger or spell on any of them ever again.

There was a robe draped over the side of a chair nestled against a small desk layered with opened and discarded books. The cold air, and the light, suddenly made her starkly aware of her nakedness again. Without a second thought, she snatched up that thin garment, and wrapped it around her slim shoulders, hurriedly binding it at the waist.

But then she did have that second thought. She stiffened, realizing just who else must have worn it before her in the cold comfort of that tome-filled room. She felt sick. Her eyes fell, and her hands shook ever so slightly. They started to tear the thing from her once more.

_Listen_.

Her head snapped up.

She suddenly didn't have long to worry over it. Instead, the unfamiliar sound of voices broke into that place from the hallway beyond.

Her other hand smothered the light in an instant. It did little good. The glow surrounded her like a shroud. She silently willed it away, and faded into the black.

Footsteps hammered along stone through the tunnels. Heavy footsteps. Many footsteps.

She slipped back up against once of the bookcases, hidden from view in the center of the room. In another few moments, those footsteps trudged inside.

"Be alert, laddies!" a voice growled at their fore. "We've got company ahead. Shadow ilk invading the master's complex."

There was no light. But she could feel the passage of air and hear their heavy, grunting breathing. At least a dozen men marched through the study and past, metal armor clinking in the dark. Imoen could only blink her eyes after where she was sure they must have been, wide and fretful. She had never once known anyone else was down there with them. She had never once seen another living soul.

And she wasn't seeing any now. The thought popped into her head briefly to let the light flare again and try to catch their attention. There was the sudden, overwhelming hope that, somehow, those men had come there to save them, marching against her captor to bring him to his doom. It suffused her so quickly just then that she lifted her hand.

_Stop_.

She stopped.

She stilled herself instantly. Something crushed that foolish hope just as quickly. Those voices were gruff, gravelly and cruel as they muttered past. Somehow, she did not think they were there to help her.

"They've come to th' wrong place, I tell ye true! Ilyich and 'is boys'll stop 'em!"

She listened silently there in the dark. Those men were short too, far shorter than she could have thought coincidence from where their mouths uttered low curses and grumblings. She waited until they were past her and moving out into another corridor, that one gleaming still with some of those dim lights above.

When the men stalked beneath them, she finally caught sight of the stocky forms the voices had belonged to, marching along in two columns away.

Dwarves.

And then she saw of the dark skin beneath their armor and helms too.

Shadowy skin.

Gray skin.

She had read about Dwarves like that during her lessons back in Candlekeep.

Duergar.

Gray Dwarves.

Evil Dwarves.

Somehow, it wasn't so hard to believe that they might have been there with her captor anymore. He would have needed smiths. For the knives.

All of them.

Memories twisted inside her skull at the thought, and so did the scars in her flesh they had made. She had to run. She couldn't ever look back.

And she wouldn't.


	9. Chapter 1 Prism

_**Prism**_

"Hold."

Jaheira laid a palm weakly back on the Rashemi, bringing them swiftly to a halt. Minsc kept on, however, pushing through her hand as if it was not even there. A rictus snarl twisted his blunt features, and his fists crunched knuckle bone as he lumbered ahead.

The half-Elven woman managed to slap him in the chest.

"Wait!" she hissed at him.

The much bigger man grunted to a stop. She glared into him for a moment, but he did not try her any more. Instead, he glowered out into the hall beyond. She followed his dark eyes quickly enough.

She had heard the gravelly voices long before anyone showed themselves in the corridor around that corner and beyond. Whoever they were, they had hardly cared to keep quiet their approach, though she could hardly blame them if they had had anything to do with that place and its vile keeper. The sight of them as they came trudging out into the hall in two winding, squat columns bristling with helms and mail and axes, however, surprised her more than she could have believed.

"Duergar," she breathed.

Her voice was incredulous, as weak as it still felt to her just then. The gray skin beneath their mail armor hardly belied that fact. She was staring in disbelief for several moments, however, as more than half a dozen of vicious little Gray Dwarves marched on through the passages of that wretched place.

Minsc beside her did more than just watch.

"Quit yer bellyachin' and keep moving!" one of the evil little Dwarves growled at the rest, waving an axe. "The master'll have the heads o' anyone who falls behind!"

A few of the others grumbled low back at that one, sneering beneath their helms. The short column plodded along, and started to pull out into the next hallway.

Then a loud cry ripped through the passage, bouncing vengefully off stone.

"RRRAAAAUGGGGHHHH!"

Two of the wiry little wretches were bowling over before they even had a chance to blink. The giant Rashemi plowed into them, taking both Dwarves off their feet and slamming them hard down into the ground. The closest to them only had time to spin around, grunting aloud in surprise before one massive, muscled arm crashed into his chest and sent him hurtling into the far wall.

"Illithid's mercy!"

That lead Duergar wrenched back around. The other three Gray Dwarves already had axes bared. Minsc rounded on them without another thought, snatching up a mace and axe quickly in either hand from the two fallen Dwarves on the floor.

Two of the little vermin rushed the seething human in a charge of their own, the third lagging a step behind. That lead Dwarf had launched a mace through the air. It crashed hard into the Rashemi's broad chest, snapping the breath instantly free from his lungs. Then the two Duergar closed, pouncing on the unarmored man before he could push on into them instead. The giant Rashemi's longer arms swept them both haphazardly aside and away with axe and mace.

The third Dwarf ducked in beneath the man as the other two fell away. Before Minsc could do anything more, the little runt had charged into and through his legs, taking the large man clear off his feet. He twisted over and down to the floor.

The leader hefted his own axe in hand, even as Minsc lashed out and started wrestling with that other Duergar. The giant Rashemi twisted around on the ground, his broad back flashing full to that last Dwarf. He drew the axe back, and threw.

Jaheira's hand snaked out and snatched the weapon just as it left the evil little man's own. It spun her instantly around with the force of the blow, and whirled right back about into the Dwarf. She let it slice open his throat, circle high with her arm once more, and cut away to the bone on its second pass.

The little monster pitched over to the floor, dead.

Minsc had already subdued the last of the Duergar by the time she turned back, and he was busy beating the evil Dwarf senseless into the ground. Jaheira just dragged the dead Duergar's axe over and cut the throats of the others left stunned on the floor. When the bloody work was done, she tossed the weapon aside. She propped herself back up against the wall, breathing heavy and lightheaded. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The giant Rashemi had acquired another thick mace by the time he let the dead Dwarves be. The look he turned on the half-Elven woman with then was terrible, but not for her. It started to subside.

"That was foolish," she told him as sternly as she could manage, staring him down. Blood drained from her face. Pale, and all but lifeless.

She swallowed.

"Unnecessary."

She looked to the seven corpses that now littered the hallway and him over both, swallowing hard and trying to straighten.

"You are fortunate things did not …"

But the Rashemi's jaw was clenched tight. He seemed not to notice the dark splotch of angry flesh across the left side of his chest from the mace that struck him. Instead, his eyes found the dead Dwarves once more.

"They dared to touch Minsc's witch with little _evil_ hands," he said simply, teeth grinding. "He could not let them live, and neither could Boo."

The half-Elven woman left a dubious look to drift over at him, but couldn't careto argue anymore. The Duergar were dead – seven less enemies wandering around that place to bar their path. They were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and outmatched. And she was tired. So very, very tired.

"Move," she grunted at him. She was already turning away.

"We need to keep moving."

She pushed off roughly from the wall, forcing herself to stand straight. Then she was trudging, stumbling forward, stepping over the dead Gray Dwarf. After a moment, the Rashemi came lumbering after.

* * *

"Jaheira?"

No answer.

"Minsc?"

Nothing.

Another step inside. That hushed, desperate voice died all too quickly in the stillness. The shadows swallowed it right up.

"… Eve?"

She didn't move for a few more seconds. Her eyes were wide and useless, scanning the empty black. She tried to keep her rapid breaths shallow, and quick.

There was no more sound from that room, though. Not then. She had been out in the hall, hugging tight to the walls. That was when she had heard it.

Felt it.

Whatever it was.

Her feet took her another step or two in. They were careful, soft and anxious. She couldn't see anything. No lights flickered on here overhead. But there was … something …

She was sure of it.

Her fingers stretched out in front of her, fading into the black as well. She ventured another step.

"Hello?"

It took a moment. But she finally got her answer.

Something crashed down hard, and she started abruptly where she stood. She sucked in a sharp breath. But it didn't come from inside that room. And it didn't stop with just once.

That heavy crashing kept up, thundering down against the floor of the passage outside. It didn't take her long to realize that it was getting closer. Fast.

Footsteps. Whatever it was, she was suddenly so sure of that.

Without another thought, she was twisting back around and plunging deep into that black room.

Her knee hit something and she stumbled, twisting over. She stifled a sharp cry in her throat, and scrambled up and over behind whatever it was.

Something stomped just beyond the wall. She could see the dim, failing light of the doorway to that room and she could see the floor tremble beyond it. The breath caught in her throat. And it thundered into view.

A giant shadow stood there in the doorway, just beyond. It paused. Then there was the low rumble of grating rock, and it looked her way.

She couldn't move. For those long, terrible moments, she couldn't move. It stared at her, and she stared back.

Then it turned away.

The thing shifted, grinding as it did so. Its heavy, crashing strides took it just as quickly away.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Those thunderous footsteps stomped on, crashing away down the hall outside.

Imoen let out a breath, and stood. Almost as soon as she did, her foot caught something hard and she tripped.

The sound of her falling and taking half the room down with her was deafening.

She waited once it was done, frozen where she lay half-sprawled back on the ground. Waited for that thing to hear and come back. Waited for something else in the dark to find her in that black hole.

Nothing did, though.

She scrambled back up and put a shaking hand out in front of her. Light blossomed there in the dark.

A bluish glow washed over her, almost comforting. Almost.

She sighed suddenly at the feel of it. The heavy breath washed away just a little of that darkness for a few seconds as she closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, something was moving.

Her head snapped that way with a gasp.

A crouched form righted itself from the floor, uncoiling and standing slowly there across the room from her. She just stared at it for a moment. Unmoving.

It was a woman. She hardly tried to hide her naked flesh as she stood there suddenly staring Imoen down. She hardly seemed to care. Instead, she just glared at her there from just beyond the light, squinting her eyes shut against it and casting unearthly shadows back onto the wall behind.

She didn't speak. Neither did Imoen. They just stared at each other for that moment.

And then the woman raised a hand out to shield herself from that light.

"Thou hast come to prey upon me once again."

_Kill it_.

Imoen just blinked.

In the next instant, that hand filled with light and washed away her own.

Everything went white. She screamed as something took her up off her feet and threw her back away. She struck glass, and tumbled down to the ground.

The room was black as pitch again when she opened her eyes. She clawed her way back up to her elbows. Then that voice came at her again, disembodied, and hissing pure hatred.

"Thou hast created me in _her_ image, but I am not _her_! I am not!" It lowered dangerously. "And I shall _ne'er_ let thee touch me again. No more death to rise again not her!"

Fire screamed across the room. Imoen threw her arms over her head and pulled tight as it burned right over. That glass exploded.

Shards sliced into her back through the robe, and she cried out.

More light flung her way instantly. Something tumbled down out of whatever was behind that glass behind her, though, splashing through water that suddenly crashed over her. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

She kicked that thing away from her, twisting over frantically onto her side. Magic of her own burned bright and violent in her hand as she hurled it haphazardly back. She hardly knew what cantrips sprung to mind. They just flew as quickly and wildly free toward the other. And Imoen scrambled onto her knees and away into the dark.

A woman's hollow laugh was the only answer.

"Dost thou now mistake me for _her_?" she cried out. "Why dost thou hesitate? You created me, fool! And killed and created and killed and created!"

Imoen still had that knife. She could hear the other's footsteps in the dark. She fingered the steel in one hand, blood dripping down her wrist. She crawled along the cold floor, feeling her way around glass.

"Now I shall put an end to _thee _…"

Another gout of flame erupted into the dark. It scoured away a whole wall of the room. Imoen twisted around, howling.

The woman snapped around with her. Light flashed in the dark. Then that sickle blade sliced into her chest and everything died out with a sharp gasp.

They both tumbled down to the floor in the dark. Imoen snarled and bared her teeth. But the other only gagged up at her, the thin outline of her mouth frozen open as she desperately tried to suck in air between them.

She looked down at where the blade had stuck, barely making it out in the dark. She could hear the hiss of air and blood through that hole.

"Damn … damn … my … copied soul," the other managed, gaping and gasping like a beached fish. "Kill me … again … again … again …!"

Imoen pushed away and stood. Then she just stood staring down as that woman died at her feet.

Eventually, she brought that light once more into hand.

The woman still gaped from the floor, eyes locked on her. But Imoen hardly paid her any heed anymore. Instead, she looked around to that room. Her eyes went as wide and terrible as the dying woman's.

There were more of them. More women scattered all around that room. Floating in huge, glass jars.

No. Not just women.

The _same_ woman.

They were all that same woman that was lying at her feet. Dying out her last breaths on the ground. They were all the exact, same woman.

The dying one's eyes fixed on her. They were unseeing, but piercing all the same.

And it wasn't just them.

There were things in other jars. Terrible, mutilated _things_. Twisted, crooked limbs. Unmoving, howling faces. An open eye. A clenched fist. Corded muscle and jutting, discolored bone. Pieces of them that seemed almost … almost …

Human.

And they were all looking at her.

She untangled herself from that dying woman. She nearly tripped over her own feet as she did. Another of her lay sprawled and charred on the floor some paces away. She wasn't sure just if those eyes were dead or alive, but she couldn't even feel her legs as they carried her leadenly back and away. She left that dagger buried in the woman's lung.

The light winked out in her hand. She all but stumbled at the door. Then she was out into the hall, still staring back into that room.

She just couldn't look away.

And it was there that the knife found her, as it slipped up to the edge of her throat.


	10. Chapter 1 Demon's Blood

_**Demon's Blood**_

It was black.

Pitch black.

It shrouded everything. Every nook and crevice. Every crest and fall. Every inch and foot. It swallowed the sky. It scooped up the stars and spirited them away to another time and place. It took the ground underfoot and blanketed it in void as thick as midnight.

Then it started to move.

The blackness shifted. It slithered and crawled. It undulated. It slopped over and down, up and back, left to right and inward. It pulsed like a living, breathing thing. Then it stopped.

There was a dull roar with that place. It quavered as it shifted all around. The sound seemed to come from everywhere all at once, low, and drowning out the silence. No. Not a sound. A dull, pervasive roar reverberating out of the shadows. A low growl from the black.

It stopped with everything else.

Everything froze when she did. She had reached only one, bare foot out, and everything around her had sounded in protest. She froze. And it stopped.

For an eternity, there was only black and silence. She stood there, naked and alone in the darkness. The void stretched on all around her forever, and wouldn't let her leave.

Fear started to creep into her heart. Ice had formed in her veins. They didn't feel real. _She_ didn't feel real. But those black thoughts began to mirror the dark around her just the same. She could almost feel it working its way into her. _Seeping_ into her. Like an infection. But there was still too much of her there for it to force its way through and in. It wrapped tight about the outside, sliding around and across her skin like slimy silk. But it could only do that. It could not get inside.

She took another step forward.

The blackness was louder this time – angrier. It shook about her, nearly collapsing.

And she took another step.

That dull roar became a thundering bellow, black raging maelstrom whipping and slashing about her in a wild frenzy. It thrashed at her. It slapped its oily, thick essence at her naked flesh and she felt it ooze free and slide off.

But that was all it could do. She did not stop.

One more step, and it was over.

The night sky was free and open around her once more. Stars blinked down at her from above just past the darker clouds that circled overhead and behind. She chanced a look back at them – or felt her head do so anyways. There, not far back and behind, stood an old castle bright against the night with flames and light.

She was running. Or someone was. There was only a moment as she stared at that sight, brow furrowing before she was twisting back around. It was all so familiar. And so very alien all at once. She was nearly tripping over her own feet in her panting haste to escape.

She looked down. But they were not her own feet. And neither was that voice gasping desperately for air as it hurled itself away.

The boy heaved. He choked, and he spluttered, and he coughed. But he did not stop. His body ached. His legs burned, his feet bled, and his arms thrashed through long weeds grown rank and thick. They snapped at him like tiny whips all over his body. But he did not stop.

He could still hear their cries. He could still see their twisting faces as those men came over and through the walls, cutting the women down – one, by one.

He had never liked them. Not really. Most of them had been cruel. To him. To each other. But the hot spray of their blood against his flesh had done away with all that in swift, merciless strokes.

He ran, tears flying down over his cheeks even as his short legs pumped harder and harder. He was not sad. He did not cry for them. Most of them might even have deserved it. No. Those tears were for himself. For his fear. For his weakness. For the bloody death he could feel closing tight around his throat with icy hands ready to choke the life out of him there that night.

Something caught his foot. In an instant, he was down on his face in the dirt, stone tearing into his hands and chook. He cried out, but the earth took care of stifling him quickly enough. A fistful of dirt rushed up into his throat. His body flung over, and he was abruptly on his back staring up at the night sky.

The mud came flying out of his mouth first. Grit and wet clung to his teeth as he hacked over onto his side. It was a disgustingly pitiful sound there in the dark. He almost couldn't believe it was his.

The screaming had stopped some time ago. But the flames kept on burning all the same. They were all dead now, he knew. Every last one of them.

And he lay there panting in the dark, sucking in terrified, wheezing breath after breath. He was the last one. He was the only one. All of them … were dead.

One of them had been his mother. He caught a flash of coal black eyes there in the dark, but it was only his imagination. Those eyes were dead now too – as cold as they had ever been in life. Somehow, someway … there had been a brief flicker of warmth at times when they fell on him. But that warmth was gone now – swallowed in those burning lights on the horizon.

It was dark, and cold. He had started to shiver there, lying on the ground. It was as much for fear as for everything else. She had told him in soft, forceful whispers so often – he was meant for greatness. He was being called up to do something worthy of the gods themselves with that single life given to him.

But it had all been for nothing.

He watched as those promises and dreams were swallowed up and washed away in the cleansing fires of that old keep. Now he was alone. He was lost and alone there so far from anything he knew. Everything of his life – he just watched burn away to ash.

He lay there. He lay there for a long time. He lay there watching the keep burn. He lay there watching his life burn. He lay there until the lights had begun to die back down and the fires withered away to dust.

His hands started moving. He could barely see through the dark and his tears both. But he was still alive. He started to pick himself back up.

Then he heard it.

Footsteps.

He froze again instantly. Everything in his mouth he swallowed back and down. He held his breath.

They drew closer – quick and quiet. He might have missed them had it not been so still and silent out there. Had the screams not died out so long ago.

He stayed where he was, unable to think or move. His mother had told him to run, and he had not dared disobey her in that moment. But she was dead now. And they were coming for him next.

A shadow loomed up out of the blackness and burning twilight. It leapt out of the stillness into life and hovered above him.

He betrayed himself again. He gasped.

The figure stopped there, dead in its tracks. He could barely see it in the dark – it blotted out the night. But it could see him. What he knew must be its head lowered down toward him.

There was a pause. It seemed an eternity that they stared at each other there in the dark – he, trembling in fear, the other only waiting to end him too.

After a time, he closed his eyes. And swallowed.

But the end never came.

Eventually, he looked back up. The figure was still there, watching him.

As soon as he looked, though, it spoke.

"Flee child," it said simply, sounding as harried and weary as he. "There is nothing in this accursed place for you. Begone."

He did not move, though. The other hardly waited for him to do so. Before he knew it, the other was passing over and away from him. He flinched as the figure did so, but it did not slow.

He lay there still for a moment more. Then he heard the strangest thing he could have thought to hear out there in the black that night. A baby crying.

His eyes twisted back toward the figure, but it flitted away all the faster into shadow. Eventually, the crying faded away as well.

There was no relief. There was no surprise. There was only the boy in that blackness, left alone and alive.

The sound of blood rushing through his veins was the only one left and the sweetest he could have heard.

He was alive.

They were all dead, but he was still … alive.

The boy fell back and laughed. The sound tore free from his throat. He laughed long, and hard. He wasn't quite sure why. He wasn't quite sure how. All the fear bled away in an instant, and there was only that laughter there alone in the dark.

It kept on for a long time.

And then that blackness stabbed her right in the chest.

Right in the heart.

And she screamed.

* * *

_Breathe_.

She gasped instead, her eyes flung wide. They darted one way and then the other, wildly, taking in the whole of the room about her. It was sumptuous – clean. _Too_ clean. Almost … pristine. She could all but feel the shadows clinging to every ray of light in that low place.

Her chest rose and fell unevenly. The bust of a flowered, silken dress was draped across it, blossoming angrily with each sharp, heaving breath. Her dark eyes flashed around the room as quickly as they could, but none of it was familiar.

Pain. Pain was the first thing to come back.

Memory … and _pain_.

Her back arched and she tried to cry out but no sound came. Her voice caught in her lungs. They filled full to bursting as the nightmare came back to her, and her hands flung out, fingers like talons clawing at the sheets about her in desperation and fury. She had been lying on a bed. In the next instant, it splintered in two to the cracking sound of bursting wood.

She was crouched against the floor on her feet and knees then, hands wrapped tight around her skull. It throbbed and pulsed against the thundering rush of the hot blood in her veins, all the agonizing torture of that months-long nightmare come back to strike at her full on. She scratched, clawed, and howled against it, but it was too much. It overwhelmed her.

She could already feel the blackness seeping its way up and around, slithering out from its hiding places deep in the cracks of her soul. She fought against the one, and drowned in the other. And they crushed her into nothingness between.

Blood slipped down the side of her face from beneath her fingernails. It burned hot into the elegant dress she now wore.

And then the room exploded.

Everything blasted backward and away, splintering into dust. That bright, beautiful place came apart, rent asunder by a sudden, violent tempest. The walls ripped free, bricks slapping back against stone and rippling outward like a struck pond. Still, dank air whipped up in a ferocious gale howling aloud as it scraped stone and metal and wood. Then it all went suddenly still, as quickly as it had come apart.

After another moment, she moved. She straightened. There was nothing left of that room now, but she didn't even notice. She stood there in the middle of it, staring straight ahead.

There was only one way out of that place. As she moved to pass through it, though, something pushed back.

The air rippled. She could see it waver before her like water. It forced her back a step. More than that – it threw her back off her feet to the floor.

She lay on her back there, staring. Something caught in the corner of her eye.

She looked that way.

Something was sticking out of that blasted scene of refuse. Something familiar. From another time – another life. But still familiar.

A silver hilt jutted out from a pile of shattered wood. She stared at it for a moment. Then she twisted over onto her side and picked herself back up.

Her fingers wrapped around the blade in its sheath. It burned her skin, but it would not come alive in her hands. It would do that for no one now. The only person who could have taken it had died long ago.

She pulled it free.

And she rounded back on that space that lead out for a moment. Just a moment. Then she pushed right through.

It resisted. The air closed in tight about her like a net, choking her body in a vice. The more she tried to force her way through, the more it tightened. Pain lanced through her body all over. But her eyes were black. Cold, and black. And they felt nothing.

It shattered like glass.

A hallway stretched before her. All the lights had shattered behind and she could barely see just what lay ahead. It didn't matter. She started clawing her way forward and out of that hole just the same.

The blood in her veins was ringing. It had been hurt. _She_ had been hurt. They were going to return the favor.

And it was not long before they both found someone else.

"Ahah! I knew there had to be reinforcements down here. Couldn't be that powerful by himself, I said!"

"Blasted shadow-SCUM!"

Steel sounded abruptly with a loud roar. Grunting and growling followed quickly after, bouncing off the walls. A man in leathers did so as well a moment later, skull cracking against stone and steel before an axe could sweep up and bury itself deep into his gut. The stout little man who had put it there twisted back around, snarling. A knife took him in the throat beneath his helm.

A few more daggers followed the first when the dark-skinned Dwarf refused to fall. He stumbled a bit after that, and finally did.

Another man in leathers, black cowl pulled down over his face, stepped in before the Dwarf could even hit the ground and slashed his throat open wide for good measure. There were a few other little dark-skinned men in armor scattered about on the floor – all dead. Only three of those hooded figures remained standing.

"We'll just put an end to this here and now," the one man who had cut the Dwarf's throat grinned down at the corpse, slipping his long knife back in at his belt. "We'll see the end of Irenicus and your little guild war before this day is through."

He spat down at the little corpse, and tapped it with his boot.

"Now, let's foreclose on this little business here and–"

They were all staring at her then. She stood out in the middle of the corridor, looking to each of them in turn. She didn't say a word.

None of them moved for a few seconds. They just stared at that sight before them – that dark, disheveled, raven-haired woman in her elegant dress so out of place in that cold, black pit. For a few seconds.

Then they all came at her at once.

There were three more bodies littering the floor before that next moment was through.

They pounced on her like wolves, and died squealing like rats crushed back against the walls. In the end, only she was left standing – there in the midst of it all. Nothing recognizably human remained. The rest of the room lay still.

Everything shook around her of a sudden. For once, it had nothing to do with her. Dust sprayed down from the ceiling, blanketing the blood and death all around below. A few chunks of stone did as well, splintering apart as they cracked against the ground.

She glanced upward. Her black eyes pierced through metal and stone, and she could just barely make out that blaze above. It was bright, and terrible.

It was him.

She started forward, and that place fell away behind her. She didn't see it anymore. She didn't see the bodies, or the death, or the decay anymore. She didn't see the pain. All she saw was that bright beacon – that power. It had torn into her flesh so many times that she could still feel it inside her even so far away. She could still taste everything.

He never knew, but they had taken just a little to stay alive. To keep them both in there alive.

And when she found him again, they were going to take the rest. All of it.

They were both going to eat him alive.


	11. Chapter 1 Reaver

_**Reaver**_

"Ah, excellent. I see I am to be provided fresh blood, for once."

The passages stretched on, cold and metallic. _Unnatural_. The boots on her feet were tattered, broken and worn. The stiff laces were all that kept them bound to her ankles as they plodded along. Uneven, and faltering. Try as she might, she could not keep her legs moving straight. And the Rashemi's heavy, steady footfalls behind were a spiteful reminder of just how weak had truly become.

They swung around another bend in the hall, and by then Jaheira was slipping hand over hand along the clammy steel and iron. When she heard those voices, it was all the excuse she needed to stop moving for even just a moment.

"Where is your master, fiend?" a man's voice demanded on top of the first. It was low, and harsh. "We seek Irenicus. Give us the upstart and you shall survive!"

She was leaning hard against the wall. The giant Rashemi had quieted, coming up swiftly behind her. He still had that mace in one hand. A chamber opened up just ahead of them, but she held him back, just out of sight.

The first voice – a woman's – laughed, rich and loud. It was a hollow sound, ringing dully off the walls.

"Already am I dead, thief," it said softly. "Join me in darkness ..."

"Enough!" the man snapped back.

Jaheira slipped in a little closer, breathing hard. She peeked around into that room.

"Kill her and raze the guild. Irenicus shall learn of what it is to betray the Shadow Thieves!"

There were half a dozen men in leathers and heavy cloaks. A woman stood in the middle of them, dressed only in a resplendent red-black gown. They had formed a ring around her. Wicked daggers and slender blades flashed into gloved hands from thin air every which way.

Jaheira watched, one hand pressed as firmly as she could back into the Rashemi's chest behind. That woman in the middle of the room only smiled.

A knife flew free from somewhere. She didn't quite see where. But it was buried in the woman's back next. She grunted, and pitched forward to the stone.

Those blades and daggers vanished back as quickly as they had come. The one who had been speaking, his black cowl pulled down from his face, turned away.

"Hurry," he called back, starting towards that hallway where she and Minsc lay. "We still have business here that–"

Jaheira had pulled back at his approach. But not before she caught sight of that woman suddenly sweeping smoothly back up from the ground onto her feet. She all but floated there atop the stone, barely seeming to touch at all. For a moment, the men all froze dead in their tracks.

Another knife whistled through the air. This time the woman was a blur of motion as her skirts suddenly fluttered up, swallowing her whole. By the time they had begun to settle once more, her hand had flung out toward one of the thieves. That knife stuck in his throat and took him back off his feet.

The whole room exploded into motion then. Crossbows appeared out of dark, sweeping cloaks, feathered bolts snapping through the air even as daggers hurtled free to join them. Some darted forward, knives and blades in hand and flashing for blood. Every one of them hurtled straight toward that woman in her blood-black gown.

Not one of them touched her.

She spun into the ground. Bolts and knives flew over her. A thief stepped in front of her. She slipped right through him. Then she was rolling onto her feet, skirts flying everywhere. Feathered bolts and steel ripped through them as she leapt high into the air, hands flung wide with black-painted fingernails curled like talons. She came down atop another man with a crossbow. Her claws sliced his face and throat open and the bolt flung uselessly away.

They both hit the ground. Before the man was even dead, she had bounded up and pounced on the next, snapping free a dagger with his hand and burying it past the hilt into his gut. His back took a knife as he collapsed in front of her, and she ducked beneath the sword swung in for her next, sweeping low and slamming hard into another thief. That one flung back into the wall, and the woman twisted around to catch a fourth by the throat as he thrust in with his blade. She crushed it in her hand, and then swung him around head first into the wall as well.

There were only two of the thieves left then – the one with his hood down and another. Both had long knives in hand, the one with a small crossbow held ready in his other. Without a word, they each circled around a different way, boxing her in between. She only flashed a row of proud teeth at them, eyes black and dead.

The next few moments were over almost as quickly as the first. Both rogues slipped in silently from either side. Both blades slipped easily just past her spinning form. Her hand slammed into one of the thieves, forcing him back. The other danced away, thrusting his crossbow forward. She had sliced up the other man's face and chest before he could fire it.

The bolt took her in the side. She came to an abrupt, jarring halt as it did so. Then she turned on that last man. He was already loading another.

But the space between them vanished in the blink of an eye. All in one smooth, blinding motion, that bolt had come free from her side and was buried in the rogue's arm. He cried out, but still managed to thrust the crossbow into her face. She caught his hand in hers, and held it fast.

The man's arm shook as he struggled with her then. He bared his teeth at her, growling against that pain. She only smiled back at him, unfeeling. Her other hand wrapped almost tenderly about his throat.

Those eyes went wide, terrified and furious all at once. His knees buckled beneath him, and he tried to gasp aloud.

"Who," he choked, his bloody free hand grasping at hers at his throat, "who are you?"

She didn't say anything – only kept grinning down at him. He was on his knees now, that crossbow shaking wildly in his hands as he struggled to keep it on her. In the next moment, though, there was a loud crack and his arm twisted back around on itself, bone poking through.

He managed to cry out as the crossbow whipped back around on him. Then it loosed, and he went suddenly quiet.

The woman bent close, even as the man collapsed, dying to the floor. And she tore into the side of his throat.

Jaheira let out a sharp breath. She didn't realize she'd been holding it.

As soon as she did, that thing stood straight up.

The dead thief collapsed back against the floor.

The giant Rashemi growled behind, baring his teeth. Jaheira snapped her head back toward him, eyes flying wide.

"Well," the woman spoke up again of a sudden, looking straight toward where they stood hidden. Fresh blood dripped down from one corner of her mouth.

"More sport."

Minsc broke free of her weak grasp before she could even try to stop him. He stalked out into the middle of the corridor leading to that chamber beyond – not bothering to hide anymore. Stout-headed mace in hand, he faced that other down.

The thing only smiled back at him. With a gentle finger, she dabbed at the blood trailing down her chin. She swiped it clean and stuck it in her mouth.

The Rashemi was lumbering forward just as Jaheira managed to toss herself free of the wall to grab him. She missed, and slipped to the ground with an angry cry. The man did not hear, though. Instead, he flew headlong into that creature.

He was dead the moment he closed with it. If it had not proven that with the four thieves, then it certainly did with that first swing of his mace.

She ducked easily – gracefully – beneath it, and it went wide. That cold smile never left her face, even as his other hand came up to smash in the side of her skull. It never got there. Her hand snatched his up first. And held fast.

Minsc stood there, grappling with the other's lithe arm for a moment, snarling through his teeth. The other hand came back up again then, mace-head thrusting for her throat. She caught that one too. And before he could do anything more, she twisted his wrist around, wrenching him instantly about in place.

The mace fell free, clattering to the floor, his other hand flung uselessly away. She released him. Then reeled back and slammed both fists hard into his back. He hurtled away with a roar.

That thing started laughing. Jaheira was struggling back to her feet, glaring at it. But it just turned on her instead.

"Such a mistake to come here, pretty meats," it clucked at her now. And started slowly, leisurely forward.

She was on her hands and knees, pushing hard to get back up. She growled vengefully into the ground. But it did not matter.

By the time she looked back up, it was standing on top of her.

"You have no idea what monsters you play in the den of …"

That thing in the guise of a woman reached a white hand down for her. Jaheira only flinched back.

And it just grinned all the wider.

Those fingers snatched the top of her head, hauling her up. Jaheira cried out at the sharpness of it.

"Oh," it cooed into her face then, holding it firmly in front of her and searching the woman's eyes eagerly with her own. "You look frightened. And injured."

Jaheira managed to snap her teeth back together, snatching at the beast's grip on her scalp. She snarled at it.

The other only cocked her head playfully to one side.

"Don't worry," it soothed with a smile.

Those dead eyes were boring intently into her own.

"I'll make it all go away."

And the roof above them exploded.

The stone cracked. Everywhere. It snapped back, contorting into jagged shards. Fire broke free through the rock overhead, shooting through like geysers as great slabs blasted their way free from the metal that encased them. It all came apart with a clap of thunder.

That thing dressed like a woman was snatched back. She hurtled away into the chamber with a violent hiss. Jaheira fell back on her feet, but it was only to be ripped up off them once more and thrown back away as well. Her back struck the wall of the corridor behind, the air bursting free from her lungs. Everything went black for a moment as her head snapped back.

Then she bounced into the other wall, brow smacking stone.

Sometime later, she was lying on the cold ground. Her lungs were pounding at her chest, desperately trying to work. But nothing would come. Everything seemed to be falling apart around her, huge chunks of rock and clouds of dust filling the air. But she couldn't move for the life of her.

The last thing she saw was a massive Rashemi hurtling through that mess back toward her. And then everything did go black.

* * *

"How did you get here?"

Imoen hurried to keep up with the man ahead of her, slinking quickly along as she did so through the metal-and-stone passages that wound about in that dark place. They had gone quiet, no sign of anyone else making their way through the halls. She didn't know if that was good or bad. She hadn't found any of the others down there yet. Only that man.

He almost seemed not to have heard her. Or he pretended not to. He slid up easily alongside one wall, peeking around the next corner. The he flashed her a look, half-smiling in the low light.

"It is actually quite uh," that half-smile turned quickly into a wince, "embarrassing. My profession does not leave itself open to those who are not wary yet, somehow I was caught unaware."

He slipped out into the hallway, and she followed after. He seemed to have some idea of where he was going at least. More so than she did.

She had hardly refused him when he had just beckoned her to follow.6+9+

"I went to bed in my room at the Copper Coronet and I awoke in a strange room with a very sore head," he continued quietly.

She couldn't place his accent. It was strange enough that she wondered just where they were now. His long, black hair was tied strangely up behind his head too, framing a grimy face the color of browned honey. Black eyes blended with pupils as they cast her back a glance every so often.

"I am not sure how I came to be here," he admitted softly. "Like you, I suspect," he added with what might have been a heartening or reassuring look. It did little of either.

"I have been trying to find my way out," he fixed his attention ahead again, "but I was wounded in my attempt to do so."

He had been bleeding, and weaker than she first realized with that knife at her throat. But still well enough to put a knife to her throat and slice it wide. He hadn't, though. Not when he realized she was not just some other madness in that terrible place.

He had told her his name at least – Yoshimo. It was just as strange and foreign to her as the rest of him.

"There are others here," she started to say, still wary of even the slightest sound from her bringing the terrible evil that had built that place back down to find her.

She still wasn't sure if she trusted that strange man yet – that mirage in the hellish black hole she had been imprisoned in for what seemed like an eternity already. She might have long since gone mad down there. She thought she must have. But she had to get out. She _had_ to.

And some small part of her was desperate for the need not to be left alone down there. She actually worried a little about just how much longer he might be able to stay on his feet. The bottom of his tunic was stained red beneath his coat.

The man cast another reassuring look over his shoulder as they neared the next corner. They had not heard another sound down there in minutes.

"I am sure we will find them," he grinned. "They will be just–"

He was flying through the air before he could finish. One moment he was standing in front of her. The next – he was slamming hard into the opposite side of that corridor.

Imoen froze on her next step. Something moved out of the corner of her eye and she spun that way. But she was too slow. It snatched her right up by the throat.

She was flying back through the air now too. But she stopped far short of the wall, eyes flung wide and terrified.

A woman in an elegant dress held her high up off the floor. She floated there in midair, trying to scream even as those fingers quickly choked the air from her. She snatched at that arm with both her hands.

The woman bared her teeth up at her. Imoen only tried to pry those fingers loose from her throat, desperately mouthing words back down.

Then Yoshimo was there again, and so were two feet of curved steel. They both slipped in to take that woman's head. She ducked easily aside, though, spun, and sent the man crashing back into the wall with no more than a brush of her fingertips.

Imoen flung free and down to the stone as well, lost for a moment. She gasped in a ragged breath, coughing. By the time she had scrambled back around, enough air in her lungs to cry out, that woman had Yoshimo up by the front of his tunic and had already tossed him away again.

"EVE!"

She had a hand up to stay the raven-haired woman as she rounded back on her on the floor. It was instinct. Seeing that face after so long … Alive. Not sliced up into ribbons of bloody, lifeless meat …

It was too much for her just then. She could not have fought back.

There was a hissing like a snake in her head at that.

But all at once, the other woman did come up short. Those black eyes cracked just the slightest bit.

"Imoen."

The woman on the floor looked desperately into her best friend's eyes. Eyes she hadn't seen in dark, horrible months.

Those black eyes. Pitch black. They weren't hers. They were different.

_Alien_.

And so was she.

Evelyn didn't say anything more for a moment. Then she cocked hers head to one side, studying her. In the next instant, she had turned away.

"I thought you were someone else."

She started down the hallway just as quickly and suddenly as she had come, staring up and away intently at something Imoen could not see. She didn't think it was the stone above them. Yoshimo twisted around as she passed, but the raven-haired woman paid no heed to either of them anymore.

And they just watched her go.


	12. Chapter 1 Stone and Iron

_**Stone and Iron**_

Two men came flying around the corner, knives and blades in hand. They both came to an abrupt stop.

And looked up.

The wall was moving. Or, at least, it seemed as if the granite and mortar of the room came crashing down toward them. But it wasn't. That didn't stop the avalanche of stone from sweeping right into them just the same.

One of those men screamed as he hurtled sideways and out of the way. His skull cracked open on the wall. That rumbling stone reeled back, then lurched forward once more, rocky limbs sweeping around for the other man. That one had the presence of mind to duck.

The mass of stone lifted itself up from the ground, pounding after the man with huge, rocky fists. It stomped after him, a dull rumble echoing and shaking the room. The man leapt aside again, but the thing crashed down along with him. Inexorable.

It didn't last much longer.

The man eventually rolled under one of those fists. He cried out. But a loud, sharp crunch silenced him quickly instead.

The thing picked its limb back up after a moment, unheeding of the crimson stain it had squashed into the floor, or the man that it had just been. Nothing else moved in that room before it. So it turned, and rumbled away.

The Rashemi glanced her way once the stone beast had gone. His knuckles had gone white atop his clenched fists. Jaheira leaned hard into his other side, one massive arm draped around and holding her upright.

"Golem," she managed, nearly choking on her own breath. The Rashemi hardly understood. But her astonishment and horror was enough for both of them. There seemed to be no end to the monsters in that place.

She gestured with a cant of her head, and the man hobbled forward with her into that room the beast had smeared the two thieves all over. She might have wondered at why any of those men were down there at all, but it did not make much difference just then. Somehow, they had distracted their captor long enough for them to get free.

The two stumbled through that room and its mess. Brown- and black-streaked stone fell away around them, smeared with mold and refuse decades in the making. More waste littered the space about, scattered and thrown haphazardly everywhere. Stinking. Rotting. There were even some bodies in there other than those two fresh ones. Jaheira just tried to ignore the smell and keep breathing.

It was all reminiscent of the abomination that had imprisoned and tortured them there. Those sinister, vile magicks poking and prodding and pressing into flesh. It was hard not to feel as if it had somehow infected her with its dark blasphemies and wickedness. The monster's own touch, she was sure, would have driven her half-mad.

Her face twisted as they plodded on, squelching through the gore. She could not help studying his perverse handiwork, though, as much as it turned her stomach. She'd rather it burned into her memory, fueling her hate. They were almost there. And she was going to have vengeance for what had been done to them – what had been done to _her_. That much she was so very sure of.

Until she saw some pallid lump of dead flesh that looked so very familiar.

She stopped dead in her tracks. The Rashemi nearly carried her off with him as he kept going. But instead he stopped, and rounded back on her. His simple face twisted in confusion.

She did not look at him. For a moment, she couldn't see anything at all. She just stood there, and stared into that filth.

And then she started, hobbling, forward.

"Kha … Khalid?"

She was wading through garbage and viscera, stumbling, drawn suddenly onward toward that sight. She hardly realized when she was in front of it, but she was staring down at a corpse.

Her mouth fell open, but no words would come. Her knees shook more and more fiercely until finally she just collapsed down atop them. Her hands were shaking too, trembling as they rose in the air toward that pale pile of flesh. She couldn't make her fingers work. She didn't dare make them work. They dangled uselessly instead. If they touched it … they would somehow make it real.

But they _did_ …

"_Khalid_!" her voice came back, ragged and hoarse. Tears burned all around her eyes and the corpse threatened to blur away into nothing.

"No … this … this is an illusion … a dream … a _bad_ dream …"

She was sobbing, her head twisting slowly from side to side. Images of her husband alive and well and with her danced teasingly in her mind, just of reach. And when she did try to snatch at them, all she caught was that dead, butchered meat instead.

She was shaking. Seething. Her eyes were wide and terrible as she knelt there on the ground next her dead husband.

Two giant hands landed on her shoulders, trying to pull her away. The Rashemi was saying something. Urgent. But she held fast, face twisting vengefully.

"_Imbecile_!" she snarled. "Affront to nature! Shut up! No more words! Words are nothing!"

The room started to shake. After a moment, the giant Rashemi fell away. Jaheira was left there alone on the ground, hands clenched into fists around spongy dead, lifeless flesh.

"Damn," she moaned pitifully, "_damn_ you …"

Stone cracked. Somewhere behind, Minsc bellowed out and a dull roar answered him. Monstrous, thudding footsteps sounded against the floor, shaking it even more. In a few more moments, though, it all just started to come apart.

Everything grew so small. The world fell away and there was only her left inside of it.

Blackness.

Death.

White noise.

Her ears were ringing.

Something pushed up from under her, lifting Jaheira back abruptly to her feet. A vine as thick around as her slipped past and behind. She turned slowly around with it, all wrath and fury and white hot, boiling rage. All she could feel of a sudden just then …

Was hate.

It burned everything else away to nothing.

And then the world all came rushing back.

The wrath of the Mother crashed everywhere into that room. She could feel it stir to life in response to her anger. Her blinding rage. A weight like ten tons of stone dangled at her fingertips, pulsing with life and death. And it all just came pounding down on the walls.

She screamed.

Tendrils broke through stone. Dark, venomous flowers blossomed instantly all along their lengths as they snaked through the filth, brushing it all away. Rock came away in huge chunks, crashing down all around.

Her teeth were bared.

Seething.

This time it was not that place trying to crush her to nothing beneath it. This time it was _her_ crushing that place to nothing all around her.

And she screamed as it all came tumbling down.

The Rashemi struggled to keep his footing as vines shot past and monstrous weeds slinked every which way. A monolith of stone towered above him even so, stomping down with four boulder-limbs to crush the life out of the little man. He hurled some large piece of refuse at it even as it slapped him aside, pounding back into the wall as it came apart. The thing struck the golem in the stone-slab head, splintering rock. Then a tendril the size of a tree hammered into it from one side, crushing it against another.

The whole world came apart around her. Nature tore open a hole in that place as it had been torn into her. The ceiling came away and soft light began to wash down from far above. She didn't think about that. She didn't think about freedom or escape. She didn't even think about that corpse beneath her anymore.

All she could think about was tearing that monster's blackened heart right out of his chest while he watched. All she could think about was crushing it there in her fist like he had crushed hers.

One of those massive vines slipped in beneath and lifted her up to do just that.

* * *

Imoen looked up.

It was just in time to see a boulder come crashing down on her head.

She leapt aside, throwing herself into the wall. That chunk of rock hit the ground and cracked in two, throwing Yoshimo back a step as well. For a moment, the man vanished. Then he bounded over it, landing in a crouch at her feet.

"What is she doing?" he yelled at her over the sound of collapsing stone.

They both looked ahead up the passage.

The tunnel was coming apart around them. It was not like before. It was not just some distant thunder of power and the earth trembling. It was not just some explosion that wracked the walls and threw that dungeon around and away from them. Now …

Now it was like all the demons of the Abyss were trying to claw their way up from below, tearing all of Faerún apart around them in the process.

And Evelyn just stalked up that passage of collapsing stone and metal right through, not heeding any of it.

She wanted to scream at him that she didn't have any idea what her best friend was doing anymore. But she didn't. She didn't even shake her head at him. She just leapt back up to her feet, shoving him out of the way.

"Eve!"

Another chunk of rock pitched down in her path. She sidestepped it.

The raven-haired woman kept steadily on, clutching tight on a sheathed blade with a silver hilt down at her side.

"EVE!"

The next one came down on top of her. She took the blow hard in the back, and went straight into the floor. A shower of dust and crumbling rock sprayed over her head.

Dazed, she looked back up. Her best friend had vanished in the downpour of sand and stone. Yoshimo scrambled on to one side of her, and disappeared as well. He forgot about her.

She clawed her way slowly back on to her knees and then her feet, scattering rock and dirt. Her back hurt. Her whole body hurt. Her naked feet were bloodied and bruised as they scrubbed desperately against the rough floor, pushing her back up.

"Eve …"

She choked on the dust in her lungs even as she threw herself forward. She stumbled on stone and cracked rock, metal shards and broken wood. Blood trickled down her forehead, matting her hair with black mud.

Then, it all fell away behind her.

She thrust a bloody arm in front of her face. Cool, night air brushed away the dust from her skin as she stumbled out into the moonlight. It took her a moment to realize just where she was. And when she did … she almost cried out and laughed.

She was free.

But instead …

Instead she shook her head, scattering rock and sand and blood. She coughed. And she blinked her eyes to see.

"Eve …?"

She saw something in the dark and the blinding moonlight. She stumbled toward it.

Then the hole behind her exploded.

Someone screamed, fire and lightning hurtling past her. It picked her up, pulling at every hair on her body until it was straight, and threw her away.

"You dare to attack me here?"

Thick black smoke and the smell of roasting meat choked out the night. Flames danced all around, peeking through the smog like winking stars. And lightning reached up toward the sky above.

"Do you even know whom you face?"

Figures flitted through that black mist, dark hoods the color of night flashing in between where it thinned. Steel flared hot in the night, slicing open shadow. It danced amidst flames and light and howling, disembodied screams.

"You will suffer! You will _all_ suffer!"

Thunder rumbled low and angry against the earth, blasting away the black smoke and rubble and flames. Then came the inferno, roaring and churning with molten fury as it swept out and around into the night. Those hooded shapes burned to ash before they could even scream.

The wind died, and Imoen coughed on soot and cinders that used to be human. She clawed her fingers into the ground, aching all over. There was blood smeared on her face. Whether it was hers or not, though, she didn't know anymore.

She pushed herself up.

A crater had opened up wide in the earth. Stone all around crumbled down and away into the heart of it, charred and broken and burned. Smoke swirled around, rising in lazy columns toward the moon above. They had begun to thin, though, and were now little more than dancing wisps.

Footsteps pounded toward her even before she had pulled herself back up to her knees. Her eyes flashed up. It was one of those hooded men scrambling over the stone her way. And he would have stomped right over her, she was sure, if he hadn't burst into a million pieces first.

She closed her eyes as the crimson and black mess rained over her. Everything else faded away for a moment. The night went silent but for the drumming inside her skull.

And when she opened her eyes again …

He was there.

"So godchild you have escaped. You are more resourceful than I had thought."

Imoen froze there, kneeling at the edge of that waste. Her blood ran cold. Her skin grew tight all over. She was sure that she started to shake.

She couldn't move.

But he wasn't even looking at her.

Someone else was picking their way down toward him standing at the center of that crater then. A woman in a resplendent dress stalking her way down toward him. For a moment, Imoen didn't know who it was. They both burned like the sun in her eyes.

Evelyn didn't say anything while she moved steadily forward. Neither did the man for the moment.

They just stared at each other.

Loose rubble started to shift. Chunks of it lifted slowly into the air as the raven-haired woman passed, floating away toward the heavens and then abruptly pitching back down. Fires winked out. Others flared twice as bright. Trails of smoke darted sideways, thrusting back into the dirt. Evelyn seemed not to notice.

The man seemed not to care. He waited as she stalked closer.

And then his hand abruptly shot up.

So did a gout of flame. It erupted right in front the raven-haired woman's feet and she disappeared.

Imoen felt the breath suddenly come rushing back into her lungs and stick. She started to pitch forward, but she threw herself up to her feet instead, screaming.

"EVE!"

But a moment later, her best friend walked right through those flames, untouched.

Imoen suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She fell leadenly back down to her knees.

The man hardly seemed so terrified, though. He just raised another hand.

The ground behind them imploded instead. A hole opened wide in the side of that crater, jagged chunks of stone swallowed up as something exploded out. It roared aloud into the night.

A dark shape hurtled through the air toward her. Imoen hardly noticed as it soared over her head and crashed down behind, rolling hard over stone. In the next moment, it formed itself into a giant Rashemi, coughing up blood and dust into the earth.

Something else fell down easily to its feet opposite her before that hole. It straightened, and joined the others in their dead, icy glares toward that man in the middle.

He just rounded back on the raven-haired woman, no fear in those eyes peering from within his mask. They fixed on her. Hard.

"I won't let you leave," he told her simply. "Not when I'm so close to unlocking your power!"

She just kept moving closer, unheeding.

"You will do nothing but _die_!" that other screamed out from behind him and the man twisted that way.

It was Jaheira.

Clouds started churning in the sky. Imoen could see the half-Elven woman's rage boiling over her tattered clothes and bruised, bloodied and pallid flesh like a shroud even from there. A moment later and all the heavens had winked out, replaced by thunderheads as black as midnight.

Lightning crackled overhead. Violent, and eager. The man just stared at the druid, her own eyes wide and blazing as they beat down into him. She lifted a hand.

Lightning shot down from the sky. It arced straight into the woman. She caught it in that hand and sent it screaming toward the man.

The whole crater lit up in a flash. Imoen had to shield her eyes. Then the light winked out, rock and stone exploding up into the air everywhere all around instead. A billowing cloud of dust roared up next in its wake, swallowing everything in front of her whole.

When the air cleared again, dirt and stone plummeting back down and bouncing away, she opened her eyes.

Half the crater was gone.

Imoen bent over onto her hands, coughing out some lingering dust. Smoke still filled the air below, tiny fires lighting an arc around that new hole in the blasted waste. Eventually, it started to fade away. And she could see.

He was still there.

Untouched.

Jaheira's wide eyes only boiled over anew. She lifted another hand up to the sky. But the man's was faster. In an instant, she was screaming again as she hurtled back, swallowed fast into the night. Lightning stabbed down into the ground where she had been.

Evelyn abruptly pounced out of the haze, all tooth and claw and howling rage. The man caught her in the face with his free hand, light flashing through the dark. The other half of the crater vanished in a wailing shriek of blasted stone and dust. The raven-haired woman snapped abruptly back and vanished with it.

A swirling maelstrom of wind and fire and death opened up and swept away all around that man. The heavens cried out above and dissipated. The earth shook and rumbled and threatened to rend itself apart again and again. Voices screamed out into the night, a cacophony of agonized wails like the shrieks of the damned melding together in one baleful cry. Death flared bright and terrible and vengeful. It tore away half the world in a moment.

And through it all he stood, calm and alone.

Unharmed. Uncaring. Unfeeling.

Then he grunted.

Something struck him hard in the back.

And he spun back around.

Imoen stood there up on the lip of that blasted waste behind him, hand raised and reeling back for another blow.

"You're not going to torture us any longer!"

She loosed and that ball of light flashed between them. It slammed into his chest and knocked him back a step.

He growled deep in his throat in surprise, looking down toward where she struck. Incredulous.

It only last a moment, though. Then he just laughed beneath that mask.

"Silly girl, you just don't understand what I'm doing, do you?"

"I don't care what you're doing!" she shrieked at him, another hand filling with a fistful of light.

Before he could say anything more, she was hurling them full force at him as fast as she could. Everything that she was she pushed behind each blow. They pounded into the man and the broken rubble around him, kicking up dust and smoke. For a moment, he vanished inside it.

Then it all abruptly exploded back out.

"_Enough_!"

Imoen flew up into the air as something slammed into her. It hammered her right back into the ground.

"I will no longer listen to the babbling of _ignorant_ children …"

Fire roared to life everywhere around that place. Imoen gasped as it burned the air inside her lungs, clawing her way back over toward her feet. The man grabbed great fistfuls of flames and started heaving them that way. They burst into stone and rock all around her, blasting away dust and shooting broken shards into the night sky.

And she screamed.

She screamed as stone sliced into her skin. She screamed as flames burst into her side and seared her lungs. She screamed as Evelyn and Jaheira and Minsc lay scattered and dying and Dynaheir and Khalid lay already dead. She screamed as he burned the life right out of her.

And then she stopped.

_It_ stopped.

It stopped so abruptly that her anguished voice was left echoing aloud into the night. The fires died. The stone smoothed back over and lay still. Even the dying seemed to cease for a moment. All of that raw power subsided for just a few, sparse seconds.

And a man stepped out of the air. His boots crunched in the gravel and rock right in front of her. His cloaked swayed in a night breeze that was not there. And his cowled head fixed ahead into the center of that blasted waste where the man still stood, looking that way.

"This is an unsanctioned use of magical energy," the robed figure declared just as abruptly as he had arrived. "All involved will be held. This disturbance is _over_."

The black air shimmered. Three more of those figures were suddenly stepping out into the rent crater, robed and hooded forms rounding firmly on the man at its center. They all just fixed unwavering that way.

Imoen stared from one to the other, wide eyed. Transfixed. But it was not the robed strangers who moved first. It was that man once more.

"Must I be interrupted at every turn?" he shouted back at them, twisting about. "Enough of this!"

Everyone was moving at once then. Lightning and fire and ice and smoke filled the air, screaming free from chanting, shouting hands and howling across that burnt expanse. The moon faded. The stars faded. Shadow blasted out in every direction, sweeping it all vengefully away.

Imoen leapt to her feet. Her hands filled with fire. Then ice. Then lightning. She didn't know how. She hardly felt the words as they sprang from her lips and spat down into that black hole. She hardly felt all that magic and power as it burned through her and blazed out into the night. She was screaming too as she sent it all hissing and shrieking down at that monster she had sworn to kill.

The answer back … was deafening.

Something slapped her. Hard.

She grunted in surprise. Then she was spinning. Before she knew just what had happened, she was sprawled on top of her stomach, even further away up that hole.

That robed man who had been in front of her just wasn't there anymore. His shadow was burnt into the ground like a charcoal etching. Screaming. Another of the men burst in two, robes fluttering wildly as they just seemed to spray his viscera back into the night. A gurgling grunt and the sound of ripping flesh was all she heard of him before he hit the ground.

The next two she didn't see. But she heard them. She smelled them ripped apart. Magic scorched the night air and carried what was left of them too her. She could almost feel their lives as they were just dashed into pieces.

She rolled herself back over. Her back struck jutting rock and she cried out. When she looked up, the sound died in her throat.

He was still there. _He_ was still there. Not one of their spells had touched him.

He looked back up at her.

She would have run, but she didn't know where. She would have screamed, but she didn't know how. And she would have died too …

… But he hadn't let her yet.

Eventually, she just threw herself back over onto her stomach.

She started to crawl away.

She could almost hear his footsteps crunching on gravel down there behind her.

She only had a little bit further to go. Then she was at the lip of that hole. She pulled herself up, and coughed up a little blood into the dirt.

Someone stepped in front of her.

She stared at those boots for a moment. Then she looked up.

Another of those robed men stood above her. He didn't even notice the bloody, battered, and burnt young woman at his feet. Instead, he looked sharply toward that blasted crater.

"This mage's power is immense!" another voice called out from somewhere else. "We must overcome him quickly!"

It was not the sinister callousness of the man below.

"Enough! I haven't the time for this."

And there he was.

"You will cease your spellcasting and come with us!" another shouted firmly back.

"Your pathetic magicks are useless! Let this _end_."

Imoen tried to pull herself up a little further. Failed. And just hung there, half over the lip, swallowing back down that sticky red mess in her mouth.

"You _bore_ me mageling," the man was answering irritably back to whoever those robed men were.

A wind picked up and brushed at the pockets of flames scattered about in the night.

"You may take me in," he continued a moment later, voice twisting bitterly. "But you _will_ take the girl as well."

Imoen pulled her neck back around, glancing back down into that hole. He was looking back at her. Her skin started to crawl.

And, after a few more seconds, she realized just who he was talking about.

"What?" she twisted back around, looking sharply up to that man standing above her. "No!" she cried, gagging. "I've done nothing wrong!"

But even before it had sunk in, she saw those eyes turn down on her. Even bleeding and half-dead there in the dirt with that man who had blown everything around them halfway to the Hells behind her – she could still see that sudden scorn for her there in those eyes.

A hand reached down to take her.

"You have been involved in illegal use of magic," one of the others called out. "You will come with us!"

But she twisted away. She threw herself back over into the hole and tumbled down onto her back. She tried to climb over onto her knees, but couldn't.

"Eve!" she screamed. "Help me!"

She started clawing her way away, pulling desperately at jagged stone. Boots crunched behind.

"I'm _not_ going with him!" she hissed through bloody teeth.

That man only eyed her pitiful flight squabbling in the dirt from where he stood still and calm in the middle of it all.

"Jaheira!" she cast wildly about for any sign of them. "Minsc!"

But there was nothing. Only blasted, burning waste.

"_Please_!"

One of the robed men came up behind that monster where he stood, a shimmering hand clamping down on the other's arm.

She screamed as invisible hands hauled her up from the ground and twisted her back around to face that robed man behind her. Her eyes snapped wide as he reeled her into his own gleaming hand.

"Eve …?"

And then they were gone.


	13. Chapter 2 Angels and Demons

_**Angels and Demons**_

The night was warm and drafty. She could feel it soaking through her skirts with sweat and slapping them in the breeze. Some storm was coming. It could be heard hours before it hit the shores, crashing in the dark. A little heavier than usual. She tried to ignore it, though, pushing on hurriedly through the light showers.

Mud squelched beneath her bare feet and between her toes. She slipped along the broad, sweating canvas, stepping lightly through the back gutters. Eventually, she reached the rear opening in the tent. A towering, swarthy man was there to meet her.

She jumped. But he didn't move. He just stood, scowling down at her. And she froze.

Her blood ran cold. She could feel it freeze to ice and go still. She didn't dare meet his eyes. She threw them down to the ground as soon as they saw him.

He didn't say anything. The dark and the silence stretched on for an eternity there all alone.

Then he threw something at her feet.

"Get rid of it."

A sack of garbage spilled around her ankles. She flinched, but did not dare move.

He twisted back around and stomped away without another word.

As soon as he was gone, the breath suddenly came rushing back to her. She panted in the dark. Tears stabbed at her eyes. Shaking. Her whole body shook.

It passed. Eventually.

Trembling hands worked to clean up what had spilled out onto the ground and put it back in the sack. She could not even tie it shut they were shaking so bad.

She just pulled the whole thing at into the rainy night. It had long since soaked through her skin, and the sack slopped loudly through the mud and water behind. It was far too big for her to even think to carry.

Not that it mattered. But before she had even reached the gutters, the whole thing suddenly came loose in her grip.

Filth spilled everywhere. The bag split open, and garbage swam free into the mud and the water.

She looked at it. Just stared at it. Uselessly. For a few moments.

Then someone screamed.

Her head jerked back up, gasping. The sound was swallowed up in the storm in an instant. That breath caught in her throat, eyes darting toward the back alleys. She stood, still and frozen.

Then came the footsteps.

Boots slapped hastily at mud. Water splashed up out of the gutters. And a dark form came hurtling out of the black at her.

A man smacked into her. His elbow took her in the chest. They both went down with a loud grunt.

He clawed at her frantically. She tried to scream, but the air ripped free from her lungs. She felt his fingers and teeth before it was through.

Everything started to close in around her. The mud was slick at her back, but she couldn't feel it. Her own death rose up like nausea in her throat. And she just stared up at the other, unable to fight back.

He slammed her head back into the ground. And fisted her beneath the ribs for good measure.

Then he leapt back up and just bolted away.

The night grew quiet again. Thunder crackled overhead. Black clouds rained down a light mist to the ground around her.

She lay there for a long time before she realized he wasn't coming back.

She hadn't blacked out. Somehow. But everything seemed dull. Throbbing, and numb.

She managed to pull herself back up. She wasn't sure how long she had just lain there. And she couldn't be sure if it was the pouring rain or tears on her face. But then she saw the blood all over her dread. Her body tried to shake her apart anew.

It took her far too long to realize that it was smeared. Not soaked. She stared dumbly at it until she did.

It was not hers.

She got back up, shaking, to her feet. Mud caked her all over. Her skull throbbed, chest burned, and stomach stabbed vengefully back.

She doubled over and threw up there in the gutter.

Long moments passed, bent over there in the back alley while everything seemed to cry out at her in pain all at once. She retched a few more times before she was through.

And then she saw where that blood had come from.

Black and red mixed with the mud, all but washed away in an instant. Black clouds choked the sky overhead. But the dim light was all she needed to see. It trailed away deeper into the gutters.

Her feet carried her forward. Slowly. Her body still shook. It was as much from the rain as numbing shock. She could almost feel the flesh on her face start to swell.

Lightning cracked overhead. A boot flashed in her eyes, half sunk in the mud. She froze, and stared.

Another flash. This time she saw a face lying half-cocked there on the ground. It was pale and lifeless. Those eyes stared off. Blind. Terror.

Her breathing came back. Heavier than before. She looked back up and ahead. Eyes blinked wide into the wall of rain and shadow there in front of her.

She couldn't move.

She tried to take a step back, but couldn't. She willed herself to run. But did not. Her body didn't listen. It just stood there, trembling in the dark, sucking those last ragged breaths.

Then, she realized, that breathing wasn't hers.

Every muscle stiffened. Her tongue was thick, choking her throat. She tried to breathe.

But the other drowned her out.

Light flashed. And she could see that other's face.

It was a woman.

Two eyes as black as the Hells stabbed up at her, buried beneath a canopy of matted, raven-dark locks. The face was swollen, bloodied, and caked with sodden ash. The clothes were torn, frayed, and burned. There was a knife buried in her side.

The standing woman staggered a step back at that look in the other's eyes. Those teeth gleamed viciously at her like a wild animal.

She had barely made that step before the knife slipped free. The other flung herself bodily after her, crying out. It was vengeful as that look in her eyes. Bloody. Murderous. Terrible.

She didn't quite make it.

Steel thrust down into the mud. And the wounded woman went with it. They both stuck in the mud and did not move.

She stared at that dying woman for a few, long moments, still frozen. Now it was her breathing in her ears. That hand had gone limp. And there was nothing left.

Dark clouds rumbled on loud overhead.

* * *

"_Imoen_!"

She bolted straight up. So fast that the covers came flying way from her body. And her eyes flashed every which way. But the other woman was nowhere to be found.

It was dark. Her chest pounded. She blinked away shadow. Sweat rolled down her face. She slapped it with a clammy hand.

She was in a bed now. Another moment and she was throwing her legs over and away from it. Her feet hit the ground. Coarse, grainy dirt. Then something stabbed her in the gut.

She doubled over, gasping. No blade, though. Her hands felt rough gauze bound tight about her middle. It was the only thing she was wearing.

Light sliced down a thin line to one side. Her eyes snapped toward it. Seized on it. Then she threw herself to her feet, hobbling that way. One hand thrust out ahead of her. It caught thick canvas, pushing aside. The light rippled with the wall.

She peeked out. Shadow wafted ahead, swallowing the light. Then a figure passed, and she could see again. She slipped out behind it without a sound.

Her aching body unwound just long enough to come up behind that figure in the dim light. It was a man.

Her ankle caught his, snapping back. He went face first into the ground. A fist cracked down hard over the back of his skull.

She had his dirty tunic off and covering her nakedness in an instant. No weapons, though. Just a large sack of something she could not see.

Voices sounded off up ahead. She dragged the fallen man away back through the canvas.

By the time she was done, two more had passed. She waited there until they were gone.

She crept up to the canvas again. Before she could slip back out, though, someone else was pushing in.

She threw herself aside and away. Light poured in. Her back slid up tight against the pliant wall.

Another was standing just inside then. That one held a candle in one hand. It lit up the room. Enough to see the unconscious man sprawled in the middle.

And the other froze at the sight of that. She gasped.

A woman.

Evelyn slipped up behind.

The candle flew free into the dirt and dimmed to nothing. In the next moment, the other's face was pressed flat along with it, one arm wrenched back around and Evelyn's knee thrust firmly into the small of her back.

The woman had started to scream. But the air hissed out of her lungs into the dirt instead, only a shrill rasp ripping free. That knee squeezed even harder.

"Be quiet."

She cocked her head to one side, waiting. There was little sound outside the tent, though. When she was sure no others would be coming, she turned back down toward the other.

"Where am I?"

Her knee pulled back just the slightest bit. Enough for the other to speak.

"P-please …" the girl whimpered instead.

Evelyn shut her up in an instant, stabbing her gut again into the dirt. The sharp cry she gave in response was cut tragically short.

"Tell me where I am," she repeated herself. Her voice was hard enough to crack in the other's small skull.

"Now."

This time, the girl managed to listen.

"The-the c-circus," she stammered, jaw trembling against the dirt. "The P-Promenade …"

Evelyn stared hard into the side of the other's head. But none of that made any sense to her. Not at all.

She bent down to the girl's ear.

"Where's Imoen?" she hissed venomously instead. "Where are Jaheira and Khalid? What did you do with them?"

"P-please," the woman sobbed back at her, grinding her head into the dirt, "I d-didn't do a-anything to them! _Please_ … d-don't hurt me …"

She was trembling, wildly. Evelyn just stared at her. She was almost catatonic with fear.

Useless. Whoever had taken her, she doubted it was that mewling little thing.

Eventually, Evelyn just let her go.

She was back up and to the canvas then, leaving the girl wallowing in the dirt. Imoen was gone. The sword was gone. Jaheira, and everyone else. They had taken everything. Again.

Whatever had happened. Wherever she was – she had to escape. She had to get away and figure out what had happened to her. To them. Wherever they were. She had to find them. It was all she had left.

She slipped back out into the night.

Torches stood guard upon pikes in the earth – the only light in that dark. It was well past dusk. Quiet. A few voices here and there sounded like echoes in the black. Canvas tents squatted down in ill-fitted rows all around, a ragged mob marching away out of sight. The night was hot, but the wind cool. No one was in sight.

She started back and away from the girl and that tent. Her bare feet trotted lightly through the mud and flitting torch shadows.

Her hand caught one of those poles as she darted past, batting the torch off into the ground and snapping the thing in two. She clutched each jagged half tightly in either hand.

The tents ran out soon enough. Almost as soon as her luck. Someone else bumbled out into her way.

He was drunk. That much was obvious. Staggering. Slouching. His eyes snapped toward her in surprise there in the dark.

"'Ey!" he barked, calling out and away. "What the devil is a little harlot runnin' round here for?"

Those two sticks in either hand pummeled him to meat there in the mud before he even knew what had happened. She clubbed him over the head and sent him crashing hard into the ground, mewling. He lay there, broken and weeping drunkenly. His jaw was broken and his words too slurred to make out. And she was flying away.

Right into someone else.

"What in blazes?"

That next one hardly had a moment before one of her cudgels had struck him straight up across the jaw. His head snapped back, a few teeth flying free. He toppled right over. She didn't even slow down.

The tents had fallen away. She was in a full on sprint now. Voices erupted behind her, and there was no place to hide. Blood thumped in her ears. She glanced from side to side.

Nothing.

Cages loomed up everywhere. Her ragged breaths were louder than any one behind. Great steel bars flashed past her to one side. Her gut was on fire.

Something hissed at her. Then it was snapping at the bars of one of those cages. She twisted aside. A growl came at her from another. She darted back.

Then something crashed headlong into her side.

They both went tumbling into the ground. Her whole body screamed out at her, and she couldn't breathe. Every muscle seemed to seize up at once – a full mutiny. That something wrapped itself around her.

"Got you," it growled in her ear.

It twisted her around on to her back, looming over. A fist cracked down into her face.

One of those cudgels swiped the other's in response. A man. Another punch to the gut and he was toppling over from her with a grunt.

Her insides were on fire, burning like the Hells themselves. She flopped over, clawing, choking, and snarling into the dirt. By the time she had pulled herself back up to her knees, though, torchlight had spilled over that dark space.

Angry brown faces grunted down at her, coming up short. She blinked in the sudden light, propping herself up with those broken sticks. One of them laughed.

"What be all this then?" he spat into the ground. "Lotta noise for one little trollup romping around in the dead o' night!"

A few others laughed too. That first one put his hands on his hips.

"Well then who lost her? Come on, girlie."

He was the first to make a move on her. She cracked one haft of wood over his wrist. The other broke his jaw.

She was on her knees again. Those eyes went wide. But anger overcame surprise before too long.

Another one came at her and she fought her way back up at him, hissing bloody murder. He leapt back out of the way, though. And she fell face first into the mud.

"Fiery little gutter wench, ain't it?"

A boot slapped her upside the head. She twisted over, ears ringing. Everything else faded away for a moment. She just lay there, gasping, writhing, her skull ready to explode.

Then another foot stuck in her ribs.

"Aye, we'll finish it."

A few fists. A boot. Pummeling into her all over. She lost track of how many, twisting every which way. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. And all the while she just kept writhing. Burning. Listening to that murderous blood scream inside her ears.

Eventually, one of those muddy boots came down on her head.

And then, there was nothing.


	14. Chapter 2 Big Top

_**Big Top**_

Water splashing her in the face was what brought her back.

She gasped aloud, eyes blinking open. It was cold. Ice cold. And smelled terrible. She wasn't even sure it was water. But she didn't have long to worry about that. Someone snatched her head up by the hair.

"Time to wake up, girlie," a man sneered in her face.

That hand let her go, tossing her head back down. But not without giving It a slap for good measure.

"They found her inside the grounds," another was saying. "Alone. Attacked a few of the men before they could put her down."

She tried to lift her head again. It was beaten, bruised, cut, and swollen all over. Bleary eyes looked up between matted, dangling black locks.

There was a third man standing there, dressed a little better than the other two in a bright vest with a thin mustache and a hat tucked in the crook of an arm. The rest of his head was draped in a few, stringy black hairs. He was studying her.

"Probably one of the locals," he said simply after a long moment. "Where did you find her?" His eyes flashed toward the other.

"With the pens. The men roughed her over good for it."

The vested man only grunted.

"Trying to steal our exotics again," he mused. Then he gave the other man another hard look. "Keep an eye on it."

He turned crisply to leave.

"What about her, boss?" the other drew him back. That one only cast her a passing glance, puffing at his mustache.

"Get rid of her after the show," he said. "The gutters won't mind another rat."

He caught himself after a moment, glancing back.

"Make sure it's quiet and far away."

He turned away again at the other's nod.

"You hear that, ye grubby little street peasant?" that one man at her head leered. "Yer goin' for a little trip after the show."

"Take care of it, Guy," that other one said to the man standing next to her. He only looked irritated to be bothered with the whole affair.

He turned away. Then he abruptly snatched something up off the ground from outside.

"Well, well, well," the man barked a laugh of a sudden. "Look what we have here … Another bloated vermin for the back alley heap!"

It was a Gnome. The little man was dangling by the collar of his tunic in the man's hand, hands grasped at his throat and feet kicking wildly. The man shook his head.

"'Fraid you're not gonna make it for a clown, little rat. You gonna show us some real tricks tonight?"

Guy was laughing beside her, wholly taken in with the spectacle. The little Gnome's face had started to change color.

"Well?" the other man demanded. "What does the great _Kalah_ have in store for the people of Amn tonight?"

He stared at him for a few more moments, expectantly. Just when the little man started to slow in his struggles, he let him go.

The Gnome pitched down into the dirt. Before he could even suck in a breath, the man had slammed a boot into his behind, sending him careening forward into the ground.

"Go on, get outta here!" the man spat after him. The little man only scrambled back up and away as fast as he could.

It was not fast enough, though, and the man sent another kick to put him on his way.

"Another corpse for the gutter, mind you, Guy," the man said with a grin, coming back around. They shared another good laugh before leaving her alone.

"See you after the show."

* * *

It was sometime later before her wrists started to bleed. The ropes binding and drawing them back up above her head were tight enough to cut into the skin as she hung there, feet barely touching the ground. She was in no better dress than she had been the night before, and caked in mud. She wouldn't have even recognized herself.

They had her in some sort of strange room. It was walled in canvas like everything else. Nothing but garbage. Broken crates and boxes. And her.

The one man, Guy, hovered outside. She could hear him grumbling to himself or murmuring to others as they passed by. Whatever fun he might have had with her was spoiled by her looking like a filthy, dreadful mess. She almost felt lucky at that. Somewhere distant, the echoes of a grand voice and instruments would sound every so often. Whatever show the man had spoken of, it left the rest of that place deathly quiet by comparison.

Her ropes were fastened up above the mesh of poles that kept the canvas up and standing. She tried tugging on it, but it did little good. Without something sharp to saw the ropes, she wasn't going to get very far anyways.

So she waited.

And waited.

… And waited.

The show dragged on forever. It was all but pitch black outside that room, and she was still waiting.

Eventually, she heard a new voice outside.

"Whatcha got there …"

His tone wasn't the same cajoling one he had made catcalls with to others as they passed by him on duty. This one was down right lecherous.

That someone else mumbled something back. But Evelyn couldn't hear it over Guy.

"That gutter trash don't need any food. She'll be face down back home by mornin', ye bloody freak!"

Something clattered to the ground. There was a familiar, sneering laugh. A few seconds later, and a third voice broke in.

"… Run along dear girl. Quickly now."

Soft, hasty footsteps. That new voice stayed on, murmuring beyond the canvas at the man. Again, the muted exchange sounded less than friendly.

She waited again while the two spoke. This time, though, it kept on for a while. Try as she might, she could barely make any of it out. But she didn't have too much longer to try to anyways.

The canvas at the back of the room shifted. Her head snapped that way. But with the sun had gone her only light in that room. Instead, she just stayed still.

"Hello?" she heard a voice whisper tentatively a moment later. She didn't answer.

Whoever it was, they moved into the room, picking their way in the dark.

"A-are you there?" it asked again. And again, she didn't answer.

She held her breath there in the dark. No sound other than that one trying to climb through the refuse of the room to get to her. Evelyn waited until it was just beside her. Then she finally moved.

She leapt up, bouncing in the ropes. Her feet swung over and snaked around the other's head and neck. With a muffled cry, that one twisted over bodily into the ground.

The other tried to struggle. But her legs held firm, tightening their grip. Teeth bared, she fed that face nothing but dirt, choking it full. And she had some light from the opening in the front now. She blinked when she saw who it was.

That girl from the night before – the one she had left bawling into the dirt – was being crushed beneath her then. Her luck had not improved much.

"P-please," that wretch managed to gasp desperately aloud even so, "stop …!"

Evelyn kept her for a few moments more. Then she loosened her hold just a little bit.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, toes still pressed to throat. Two huge, terrified blue eyes stared up at her.

The girl had a hard time choosing between gasping in air and spitting out words. Somehow, she managed to do both. And if Evelyn could have bent to hear, she might just have heard what the other tried to say.

"You'll have to _speak_ up," she chided instead, punctuating it with a gouging of the girl's tender flesh. She choked out a sharp sob in reply, all but crying anew.

The girl just continued to struggle. Before long, even those two outside had managed to hear it.

"What the devil is going on in h-"

Guy only made it a few angry steps inside the tent. Then her foot struck him full across the face. He tumbled aside into some broken old crates and lay still.

The next one held back. He was so short, her first blow sailed wide over his head. And then she was left kicking only at air, wrists burning with blood and sore flesh in the ropes above.

The girl managed to scramble away before Evelyn could get another hold on her too. Another moment and she was standing next to the short man, making him look even smaller. They both just glared at her.

"We came here to help you!" the girl managed to cry out angrily with a few moments' breath. That fury was short-lived, though, all but swallowed up in those tears. She could not keep from trembling visibly.

"Well this won't do. It just won't do," the man grumbled as he looked to the fallen Guy. He pulled a pair of glass spectacles out of his coat pocket. "I dare say he'll be angrier than Urdlen when he comes to. We'll have to get you out of here. And quickly."

Those echoes from outside swelled suddenly. Whatever show had been going on, it had just ended. Or soon would.

The short man seemed to realize just that. He cast an eye toward the flap in the canvas.

"Go on, Aerie dear, cut her down. You know I can't reach that high."

The girl – Aerie – hesitated for a moment. Then she pulled a knife into her hand and started forward.

Evelyn bared her teeth, tensing all over. The girl stopped dead in her tracks. Somehow, she managed to glare while shaking like a leaf there in the dim light.

"W-we're trying to h-help you!"

She even sounded a little angry.

Eventually, Evelyn stopped staring bloody murder at her. She did not ease up, though. Not for a second.

Aerie started towards her again. She even made it as far as the ropes. For her part, Evelyn waited patiently while she sawed them loose.

And when she was finally free again …

She took a step back.

"Who are you?" she growled. This time, she didn't bother to put a knee to the girl's back. She knew now that one was too much of a coward to need it a second time. "Why did you bring me here?" She still wasn't quite sure what was going on. But she didn't care to stick around much longer to find out.

"You were hurt," the other woman protested once more. Her sweet, weak voice managed to sound petulant.

"The dear girl found you in an alley, bleeding to death," the short man explained. "She has been nursing you back to health here in secret for almost a tenday."

Evelyn stared at them both.

But they just looked at her. They weren't lying. She didn't think. It was painted all over their grubby little faces.

"Ten … _days_?" she uttered.

She almost barked a laugh. Caught herself. And glared at them again.

"Ten days …"

She breathed again. But it hung heavy in her throat. She could barely remember anything. There were only vague flashes of fire. Lightning. Her friends. And him.

Him.

_Him_ …

Her blood boiled over and everything else washed away in an instant. Her whole body shook. That memory flashed in mind. All she could see was him fading away from her. His neck vanishing just before she could tear into it with her bare hands. _Him_ laughing as he taunted her, tortured her, and then …

And then just got away …

Imoen.

Blood was trickling down her hands by the time she realized her own cracked nails had dug into them. That thought broke through everything else like a clap of thunder, casting it aside. She looked up at those two.

"Where is Imoen?"

Her tone had become dark. Dangerous. The girl quickly shook her head.

"Y-you were a-alone!"

She glared at them. She almost went so far as to pounce anew. But she didn't. The girl wasn't lying.

Ten days …

She sucked in a deep breath instead. Imoen was gone. No, not dead. She was gone somewhere. That was all she could remember.

And she was empty handed. She had lost everything.

Everything.

She had left her best friend behind.

The realization ripped at everything that was her more than she could possibly bear.

Eventually, she looked back up to those two.

They were each studying her. Warily. They had no idea what to expect next. And it wouldn't have mattered if they did.

So Evelyn just opened her mouth.

"Take me out of here."

* * *

"Hey! Just where do you think yer goin'?"

A hand snatched at her shoulder. Before the man could even spin her around, he was on the ground. Stomach, nose, throat, and he was down.

Whatever was going on inside the big tent in the middle of that place, it had reached a fever pitch. Evelyn had barely heard the man until he was on top of her.

The short little man with the spectacles – another Gnome, she had realized – proceeded to scrub at them vigorously. After he had returned them to his face, he blinked through at the man sprawled out now on the ground.

"Oh, dear."

Someone screamed.

That girl – an Elf of all things – had opened her mouth but snapped it shut at that sound. Evelyn twisted back around, scattering the coarse skirts and loose coat they had managed to throw over her on their way. But it had come from that big tent.

"Probably the last act," the Gnome mumbled at them. "Hurry," he gestured anxiously. "Before they see you!" He had already started away.

Evelyn followed after again. The night grew deathly quiet. Still, and silent. There were only the nighttime crickets, and the Gnome's boots crunching dirt. For a few minutes.

Then the sky blew itself apart.

A huge clap of thunder roared down over them. Before she had even realized it, Evelyn was thrown face first back into the ground. So were the other two. The sound rushed down over tem with a howling cry.

She was spitting out dirt from her teeth, and it didn't take her long to scramble back up. She rounded back on the circus in an instant. This time, it wasn't just screams coming from the big tent. The whole thing had split wide open and erupted like a giant torch.

"Oh, B-Baerevan …"

The Elven girl could only stare in shock and horror. The Gnome was stunned and wide-eyed as well. Evelyn took a step back.

Then the people came. Hundreds of people. They poured out of the flaming tent, screaming in terror. They clawed at each other. Trampled each other. All desperate to get out. To get away.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

Some of the people were on fire. Flaming, living candlesticks racing wildly into others and screaming as they died. Men. Women. Children.

But that still wasn't the worst of it.

No. That came next.

Everything started to …

_Twist_.

Those people not on fire – they started to change. It happened in the children first. The small ones. One by one. Then the women. Then the men.

One. By. One.

One of them sprouted fur. Another fangs. One fell down and started writhing as his arms simply vanished. Another got down on all fours and sprouted four more. Everywhere all of them were screaming, though. Gurgling, hissing, roaring, shrieking.

Every. Last. One.

In less than a moment, all of the circus grounds were filled with twisted, writhing freaks and monsters. Some were still changing. Twisting. It all erupted into a panicked frenzy just as terrible as the volcanic tent behind it. Everywhere. There was nothing but madness.

Then, they turned on each other.

A giant man with four arms ripped another clean in two and started hammering the crowd with both halves. A woman covered in bubbling boils screamed as they began to burst, spitting hundreds of spiders into the air. A little boy ran shrieking for his mother until a slew of tentacles swallowed him up whole.

"Oh … _my gods_," the Gnome gagged, trembling wildly. He stumbled back and fell flat on his behind.

Aerie was no better. Even Evelyn took another step back. It was one of the most horrible and disgusting things she had ever seen.

And it was coming right at them.

She almost didn't find her voice in time. She stood there, gaping, and wide-eyed. In shock.

Then she spun back around.

"_Run_," she growled at the other two. They both just stared at her blankly, though, too horrified to move.

She snatched up the girl, shook her, and then threw her towards the Gnome.

"_Move_! _NOW_!"

Something new came out of the tent. This one was not screaming like the others. This one towered head and shoulders above them, dark blue flesh bulging with ten feet of muscle and black eyes above fanged jaws. It turned into the crowd, and Evelyn froze. She had seen one of those things before. Once, long ago in an old forgotten Dwarven mine buried beneath the Cloakwood far away.

She was staring at an Ogre mage.

The thing started bellowing aloud. Its massive, clawed hands filled with gleaming, terrible light. Fire and lightning suddenly ripped into that twisted crowd, burning wildly.

"Yes, my beasts!" it laughed, mighty jaws gaping wide. "Go ahead and tear each other apart!"

That deep, dark voice rumbled across the whole circus grounds.

"Welcome to the domain of the Great Kalah!" it roared in glee.

"Now the circus TRULY _BEGINS_!"

Monsters overwhelmed them. Clawing, scratching, biting. They squirmed, writhed, and scrambled across the dirt and towards them.

The girl and the Gnome did run then.

A giant half-woman, half-spider tried to pounce on her. Evelyn leapt aside and left it scrabbling in the mud. Another with branches for limbs, skeletal hands, and nothing but a gaping maw where its face should have been, swatted her out of the way.

She hit the ground rolling a ways away. The thing didn't follow. It just tore right past her.

They all just made for the grounds entrance.

She was picking herself back up. The Gnome and the girl were gone. Only monsters stampeding around her. If they were smart, they had run. She did.

A hum filled the air. Evelyn glanced back, twisted, writhing bodies seething and surging all around her. That Ogre mage was in a circle by himself. But in the next instant, half a dozen men in cowled robes stepped out of thin air and surrounded him.

There was a flash of memory. She froze with it, staring. Slowing.

Something struck her hard in the back as it passed.

Then it was gone.

She was running away with all the rest.

The crowd surged ahead toward the open gates of the circus grounds. They were almost there before another handful of those robed men appeared right in front of them.

One of those cowled forms raised both its hands. Before any of them knew just what had happened, the front ranks of monsters were soaring, shrieking up into the air and back over the heads of the rest.

"Let none of them through!" the robed man shouted, stalking up and down the line of cowled figures. "Contain this disturbance at all costs!"

The others started with spells of their own then. In the next moment, all those monsters were rushing headlong into a wall of brilliant magic.

Twisted, mutated, and mutilated bodies hurtled everywhere. Evelyn ducked, still darting forward. A snarling bear-man screamed over her head and she hit the dirt. It tumbled away behind her, plowing into some others and crushing them flat.

The spells had been non-lethal. Wind and light. But the mass of terrible creatures only went into a frenzy at those wizards blocking their path. By the time those in front had reached their line, scathing fires and ice were stabbing deep into their midst.

"_Uncle Quayle_!"

Evelyn threw her head down behind a mutated husk of a wolf-man, ribbons of light hissing right above her ears. They struck the sprawled beast in front of her and he barked his own death.

She looked up then, choking on the stink of roasting fur and flesh. And there was the Elf girl, bent low to the ground.

Evelyn scrambled over the dead wolf-beast and clawed her way under a jet of flames toward the girl. By the time she got there, though, she could hardly recognized the charred little corpse she was bawling over.

The wizards kept at it. The crowd had all but shattered, but still twisted monsters made for the gates. Evelyn snatched at the girl's arm and forced her tear-drenched eyes back up.

"Keep going!" she hissed.

She pulled the girl back up with her and behind. She could not resist. And then Evelyn was running, dragging the Elf girl close on her heels.

Screaming had turned to wretched gargling, bellowing to wounded shrieks, and snapping jaws to mewling retreats. Everywhere. Magic only flung at stragglers who refused to stay down now. One of those wizards caught sight of the two women.

Lightning arced towards them and Evelyn snatched the girl down. It screamed overhead. Then she was back up, hauling the Elf along with her once more.

Evelyn threw her hands up helplessly as they rushed toward the cowled man in front of them. He hesitated for a moment at the sight of two untouched women running toward him. Just a moment. But by the time he thought better of it, her hands were already at his neck.

It snapped easily in her grip.

The Elven girl stared blankly down at that corpse. Evelyn only spared a brief glance back toward the torn, blasted, and writhing, scene behind, breathing hard. She had never seen a battlefield before. But she suddenly wondered if that broken expanse was what one must have looked like afterwards.

It didn't matter, though. She grabbed the other woman's hand once more.

"Come on."

And they vanished ahead into the night.


	15. Chapter 2 Predators and Prey

_**Predators and Prey**_

A few coins clattered down heavily on top of the table. Silver. Western mintage. He barely lifted an eye.

After a few moments, a gold sovereign clunked down with them.

He just sighed.

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

The other did not answer, though. He just stared down from beneath his hood.

The man sighed again, a little disappointed there was no attempt to outbid the first. Obviously not native to the city. Or a merchant. Usually, his demeanor worked wonders. But, he supposed it would do. He reached out to sweep in the coin.

A hand snaked out to snatch at his. Fast. Agile. They'd had some practice. Gloved leather held him fast from the silver and gold.

"I am looking for someone."

He smiled up at the hooded figure, bound tight from head to toe in dark, stout leathers. A blood hunter. His eyes were cold as stone. And twice as hard.

"Well, you have certainly come to the right place, my friend." He eased back in his chair, letting the din of the seedy little dive's common room wash over him. "A pearl to you."

He cracked a smile even so.

"But this is a large city. The grandest of them all."

He threw his arms back with an even broader grin. Then he fixed the other with a hard eye.

"Finding just one person amidst its thriving multitudes will require a little more," his eyes gleamed, darting about. "_Financing_ …"

But before he could draw another breath, those gloved hands were on him. They hauled him up and lifted him high right out of the chair. The hooded figure slammed him hard back against the wall as if he weighed no more than a child. And held him there.

"I don't have time for your games, Thief," that one hissed, eyes thrusting close.

The man merely grunted. And laughed. The hooded figure slammed him again, and he grunted into a throaty chuckle.

Half of the chairs in the room seemed to squeal back at once. The squeaking lute stopped. The whole room went silent.

A dozen men were already standing, glaring at the back of that hooded figure. They didn't bother to ask questions. It was _his_ party after all.

He frowned a little disappointedly at the other, though. And canted his head.

"But I do so _love_ to play …"

Again, he hardly knew what had happened before he toppled back down to the floor. He laughed as the cloaked figure spun back around a little anticlimactically. Common killers with no flare. The other men in the room swept in on him, knives and daggers and jagged sabers slipping free into hand. A ring formed around that half of the room, boxing the bounty hunter in. They waited, wicked leering grins and half-toothed smiles behind steel prodding him from every which way.

The man was back on his feet, clapping his hands.

"I have an idea," he barked another laugh, stepping away. "Why not hand over the rest of that coin and we'll only paint the walls with a little red ink, friend?" he offered.

And without waiting for an answer, a few of those armed men rushed the hooded stranger.

The bounty hunter ducked beneath the first. That one's swing went wide. A fist struck up hard and fast beneath the brute's ribs.

A knife sliced at the hunter's neck. He caught it at the man's wrist, shoved a boot into the next attacker, and slammed an elbow into the first's nose. They both toppled over to the ground.

He was certainly a little faster than he looked. The one man stood grinning from behind. Then two more came at the hunter in a rush. The first he cracked over the top of the skull. The second managed to drive him back into the wall. The grinning man had to hop out of the way, gaping in good fun as he went. But a few hard blows across the head and back and that other muscle was down too.

By the time the next man had reach him, the cloaked figure had slipped a blade into hand. Scythed steel curved elegantly as it slashed open one man's chest and another's gut. The rest held back after that.

The common room was quiet again. Tense, and holding. And still, but for the groaning men on the floor. The hooded man held back. Until swift clapping brought him around again.

"Well, well," the man who had been at the table began enthusiastically, picking his chair up from the floor. "I'm sold." He grinned. "Perhaps we might conduct some business after all.

"Come," he gestured, slipping back in at his seat. "Tell us who it is you must find."

After a few more, dubious moments eying those ruffians around the room, that small, scythed blade vanished as easily as it had come. The other men retreated back into their drinks with a few grumbles and glares, dragging their fellows to their feet and away. The music started up again. It was almost as if that utterly spontaneous altercation had never been.

"A young woman," the hooded bounty hunter said simply. He tossed a crumpled piece of paper onto the table. The seated man took it and opened it up.

It was some kind of bounty, as he thought. There was a picture of a girl on it. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dusky skin. Maybe Amnish. Or Tethyrian. It was hard to tell from the faded piece.

"Her name is Evelyn," the other added, voice still dark and low in his throat. "She is from the North. She will stand out."

He glanced up at the other.

"I have not heard of such a bounty," he said.

But the other said nothing. It was strange that he had not. So the man went back to studying the picture.

"And what will you do when you find her?"

"When _you_ find her," he corrected brusquely. "And tell me where she is."

He turned away.

"I think you know."

And that was it.

The bounty hunter made for the door and left without even saying where he could be found.

No taste. No taste at all. Gods, how brutish and simple they all were.

Well. The man supposed it didn't really matter. He knew Athkatla well enough, and it would not take long. Another few coins to pad his purse. They never hurt. Especially in the City of Coin.

He folded the paper up, and stuffed it away.

Then he sat back, and ordered another drink.

* * *

_Wake up_.

Imoen felt her eyes snap open. Then she was staring into the dark. Cold stone pushed in all around her.

She blinked.

"They're here."

Her head whipped around at the sound of that voice. It clawed at her temples like fingers sliding down the insides of her skull. Smooth. Dark.

But empty. It trailed off. There was no one else there.

Something slapped her in the face.

"Wake up."

She started with a gasp, clawing her way back and away. Her back came up against a wall, staying her swiftly. Someone was staring down at her.

"Put them on," a man ordered simply, gesturing toward the bundle that had bounced off her to the floor. "We cannot have mages wandering around in tattered rags with their shame for all the world to see, now can we?"

That was all. Not even a second glance.

The man turned away, loose robes sweeping out behind. She didn't let him get another step before she was leaping up and after, though.

Something struck her before she even got halfway.

Electricity lit her up like a torch and flung her back against the stone wall. She hung there for a moment, breathless. All the around world was still. For a moment. Then she came tumbling down, choking to the ground.

That man spared her a brief glance. Only a glance. He barely slowed.

She was alone again. For a minute or hours, she wasn't quite sure. All she could do was suck in shallow breaths, unable to move. Her eyes fixed uselessly on the empty corridor ahead.

Whatever it was that had knocked her back, it shimmered from ceiling to floor just beyond the alcove she lay in. A few moments and it was gone again. Somehow, though, she knew it really wasn't. She could almost feel it there, hanging in the air.

They had given her some simple clothes. The robe she wore was tattered and frayed and singed beyond repair, and she did not hesitate to be rid of it. By the time she had managed to pull herself back together and changed, someone new had come for her.

An older man stood in front of her. Now steely eyes appraised her coldly from beneath a wizened, hatcheted face. He opened his mouth and said one word.

"Name."

She blinked at him. She cocked her head to one side. But she did not answer.

He repeated himself.

"Name."

It was more than a little annoying.

"Who're you?" she snapped right back at him.

The man waved a hand. And lightning surged through her whole body again, knocking her back. She stumbled into the wall with a grunt.

"This will be easier on you, mage," the man warned with that same dispassionate voice," if you speak only what you are told to speak."

He clasped his hands behind his back.

"Now," he began again. "Name."

She managed to pick herself back up. And just bared her teeth at him.

He sighed, irritably. Then energy blasted into her from all around anew.

Imoen cried out, gasping. Her legs buckled. Her face pitched into the stone floor. The old man only watched.

It lasted for a little while. But eventually, the pain stopped. And she stopped writhing on the floor.

"This can be as easy or as painful as you make it, mage," he said more sternly. But she could hear it. She could hear it in his voice. He really didn't care one way or another at all.

"Answer."

She did. After a moment. She rolled back onto her stomach. And laughed.

She laughed at him.

He knocked her back off her feet before she had even finished picking herself up.

It was several hours before the man finally left. Before he gave up.

Imoen lay there, listening as the sound of his footsteps faded away down the hall. Her hands were clenched tight. Her ears bled. Her body writhed and spasmed. Still, she managed to laugh. Laugh at him.

He had no idea how much worse she had already suffered. Her body reacted. But the pain. The _pain_ …

She just couldn't quite feel it like she used to.

Eventually, she just picked herself back up again. And waited.

* * *

"Bring them forward."

The bubble of magical lightning pushed forward. It zapped Imoen's feet when she did not move, prodding her along with it. She resisted for a moment, just because she could. Then they both drifted into the vaulted, marbled chamber.

Cowled and robed wizards glided along at her sides. They had turned the magical barrier at her prison from earlier into a mobile torture device now. They herded her toward the center of the room like some kind of caged, wild beast. Maybe she was now.

A much older man stood there. Bent and wizened, his gray-bearded face was hidden beneath his cowl. He leaned heavily on some ornate staff of office. She could feel his heavy eyes on her the whole way.

They were not alone. Imoen heard the footsteps of another entourage of mages approaching behind and looked that way. And when she did. Her blood turned to ice.

A man strode out in between half a dozen mages and a magical bubble of his own – strode out until he stood only a dozen paces away from and beside her.

She froze. Her tongue was thick. The rest of the world whirled in her eyes. They followed him the whole way. She couldn't move.

They stopped. She could only stare. Helpless.

Then he looked at her.

It was brief. Inconsequential. She was. And everything just seemed to press down and close in on her all at once. Black terror clawed its way up her spine, two fangs in her neck.

Everything that that uncaring, pitiful wizard had tried to do for hours with every spell he could think of, that man did with just a glance. It was a miracle she was not suddenly writhing on the floor. She wanted to.

One of the mage escorts stepped forward. She didn't even notice. He strode over to stand between the old man and the two prisoners. He gestured back with a hand.

"These are the ones from the disturbances at Waukeen's Promenade," he introduced them simply. "The damage is extensive. Irreparable." He cast a dark eye back toward them both. "They have burnt a scar into the face of this city that can never be undone."

The hall went silent. Painfully so. It was as if the very air accused them of those vile deeds. Imoen finally broke from her horror at that, aghast.

"I had nothing to do with that!" she cried at them of a sudden. Her voice shook with panic, fear, and anger, all. She stabbed a finger at that man.

"He did it all! I had–"

"Silence, child."

That voice broke over her. Smooth. Calm. Cold. Deathly cold.

It sent shivers running up her back like dead fingers on her spine. A thousand terrible moments came flashing back, swallowing her whole. All in an instant.

"Allow the fool to make his judgment."

She was trembling. Shaking. She snatched feebly at her hands, but it wouldn't stop. The old man leaned forward, ignoring them both.

"What is known?"

The one who had spoken among their stiff-necked, stone-faced escort turned back around, loose robes flowing against marble.

"Naught but their names," he told the elder. "The mage is Jon Irenicus. The girl is Imoen."

Imoen's lip quivered. Something in her brain snapped.

That name. She _knew_ that name. She knew it!

But she wouldn't look at him. She couldn't. Not even to see the truth of it. The memories were enough. More than enough to freeze flesh and blood and bone.

A thousand whispers in her head. Soft. Dark. Insidious. Those blue eyes as dead as life. Studying her. Slicing her open. She was only meat.

His face. His face through it all. An eternity of torture – fingers in her skull – and all she could see was that face, peering through its frozen mask.

_Irenicus_ …

"What should be done with them, sir?"

She knew that name like she knew her own. It was a part of her. It was something she could never be rid of.

The old man flexed his withered jaw. There was no thought. No judgment. The answer came almost mechanically.

"They are deviants," he grunted dismissively. He had already begun turning away.

"Let them rot in Spellhold."


	16. Chapter 2 A Crying God

_**A Crying God**_

"What?"

The half-Elven woman looked up. It was all she could do just to lift her head. The man only looked back at her.

"Spellhold. That is where they will have sent her."

Jaheira let her chin fall again, back down to the blankets. She stared at the ragged wool for a long time.

"Then she is as good as dead," she uttered.

Her eyes flashed back up.

"What about …?"

She couldn't even bring herself to say the girl's name. She feared the next answer even more.

The man shook his head.

"There was no sign of her."

The druid all but collapsed in upon herself at that. It was too much. It was all just _too_ … much.

"Nothing?"

He stepped over past her mat on the floor. She turned her head away.

"What now?" he asked after a little while longer.

She didn't look at him. She didn't like anyone seeing those tears in her eyes. Least of all a stranger.

"What does it matter?" she growled back.

His boots barely made a sound as they paced slowly just to the other side of her. The familiar moans all around all but drowned them out.

"Your friend saved my life," he admitted softly. "And I intend to return the favor."

Jaheira stared away into the barely breathing form next to her on the floor. Another "victim" of those attacks on the Promenade that the Cowled Wizards had so magnanimously managed to contain and subdue. How they could have ever allowed such a malevolent sorcerer to harbor unlicensed so close under their very noses was one of the many things keeping her awake so fitfully at night. She hardly knew who deserved her vengeance more. But it all just reminded her of why she had become a Harper in the first place.

They had pulled her from the wreckage of the streets along with all the sorcerer's other victims – those that there was still enough left of to do so, anyways. Priests of Ilmater. Anyone who had been too close during the attacks had been burned or injured horribly. Very few had been lucky enough to live. She wondered if she should feel lucky.

"So what will you do?" the man broke in on her thoughts again. She only clenched her fist tighter about the covers.

"Survive," she said simply. Her face twitched, but he could not see it.

It was all she had left.

Eventually, he gave up on her.

"I will see what else I might find," the man spoke again with a nod. "Your other friend might still be alive."

Then his gentle footsteps faded away through the chapel's chamber.

It wasn't until after he was gone that Jaheira turned back. She doubted the man would find anything – she had seen the blast that had taken the girl. Still, she had made a promise. And she had to be sure.

"_Minsc_."

She pushed herself up as much as she could to see about the dim chamber. There was little more than aisles of bodies – living and dead – and the quiet ministrations of priests and priestesses tending to the wounded. The giant Rashemi was not hard to find.

He was crouched on his haunches, playing with something from hand to massive hand, and speaking quietly to no one. At her word, though, he leapt up and bounded over to her. He settled in quickly, dutifully at her side.

She reached a feeble hand beneath her coarse coat of a pillow and pulled something out. A piece of folded paper. She handed it to him.

"Take it," she told him carefully, managing to keep her pitifully weak body aloft. "Go to the docks of the city," she said.

Then thought better of it.

"Where they keep the big ships."

He nodded at that.

"There is a building," she winced, "with this symbol on it," and pointed to the drawing on the front fold of the paper. "Ask for Meronia, and give this to her – _only_ her."

She released him and the missive, and eased herself back down.

The Rashemi looked at the paper. Then looked at her.

"It is not safe here for little Elven lady alone," he protested in that simple way like an overgrown puppy. But she brushed it aside.

"Go," she ordered as firmly as she could.

He hesitated only a moment more. Then he was hurrying away out of the hall. And she just breathed as hard as she could.

She had lied to that man with his honey-colored skin who had found her after that terrible night, claiming to have escaped with Imoen and Evelyn. She had lied to him because she did not like him - did not trust him. He was too generous, and too helpful. And she had little reason to trust anyone from that far east.

She could do just a little more than survive.

Soon.

* * *

Evelyn snatched the girl's hand, and brought it close so that she could see. There were four copper coins there.

"That's all?"

The girl – Aerie – nodded her head without a sound. Even in that dark, Evelyn could see that face was still broken. She had barely spoken a word since their escape from the circus grounds.

The raven-haired woman let her go, gently. Then she started off into the street.

"Come on."

The rain hit them instantly. Light, and warm. It had already soaked right through the pitiful rags she wore now, the clothes barely thick enough to hide her shame. She was lucky it was so hot here. She didn't know how these people could survive like this all year round. Back home, they would have all frozen to death by winter.

She reached the opposite side of the mud-drowned bog of a street. There was an inn and tavern there. The wooden sign swung loudly, creaking in the wind. It was too splashed with mud and dark to be able to read. Not that it mattered. She pushed her way inside.

The sound hit her first.

Then the heat.

Then someone's chair.

Evelyn nearly fell back out again as a man toppled over in his chair right in front of her, slamming both into the ground. Another man rolled over him, snarling. Both cried out in drunken rage. And they tumbled away.

She did manage to step into the room then, after another moment, the girl in tow. Almost at once, every table near her went silent. And stared.

Evelyn didn't lose more than a step. Aerie, however, went suddenly rigid.

All those dark eyes and swarthy face fixed on them like hounds watching two bedraggled cats wander into their kennel. They must have looked it. Wet, muddy, and miserable. Helpless.

She could almost see the bared, growling canines.

The girl was shaking.

"I-I don't think I l-like it here," she stammered when Evelyn glanced back at her. "W-we should leave."

The raven-haired woman gave her a hard look, and then glanced back into the room. She tugged hard, forcing the girl along behind.

Shouting, laughing, and drinking roared everywhere. Somewhere, music made a feeble attempt to break through. It was hardly any brighter in there the bodies were packed so close, torches and candles low. Barking erupted to one side, followed by savage snarling. She caught a glimpse of a few dogs tearing each other apart amidst a ring of jeering men squatting around a sandpit.

Everywhere men got in her way. They stood as she pushed past their tables. Maneuvered in front of her when she came their way. Each one of them turned a stony, dour expression down toward her as she pushed through. There was so little give. Not that she needed much. That fierce look on her face was like bloody death. She _made _them move.

The girl had all but shaken herself to death by the time they got to the counter. A skinny-looking, lecherous man growled down at them.

"Yer brave gutter trash to be comin' all the way in 'ere," was all he said. His apron was as dirty as the bar. And it wasn't from cleaning.

"Something to eat," she just growled back at him. It was all she said.

He made a sound in his throat. Then he crooked one side of his mouth and spit into the floor.

"Flesh packin' district's on the other side of the slums."

She took the girl's hand and slapped it down on the countertop. Those four coins gleamed dully in the low light.

The man only laughed after a moment. Then he turned away and disappeared, shaking his gaunt little, elongated head. He came back with a hard, half piece of bread and took their coin. Evelyn managed to split it with the girl.

"What happened?" she asked after letting the Elven girl nibble away tentatively at a few bites. Those doe eyes flickered up at her.

"At the circus," Evelyn added. She shouldn't have had to. There was little else she could have meant.

But the other woman only shook her head.

"I-I don't know."

Aerie tried to keep her eyes as hard as she could on the dirty bar and the little bit of food in front of her. She had barely stopped shaking.

"He was your uncle?" Evelyn pretended again after a moment. "The Gnome?"

Again, all she got was a nod of the other's head.

She might have said she was sorry for the girl's loss. But she didn't really feel like lying to her. Instead, she just let them both eat that pitiful fare in peace. They had both gone long enough without anything to make even that seem worthwhile.

Precious few words had been spoken while Evelyn dragged the catatonic girl all but bodily through the streets all night. She had had no idea where they were – even what city they were in. That much, though, she had learned, and it did her precious little good.

Somehow, she had ended up hundreds of miles south of her home. In Amn. And the man who was responsible for bringing her there was gone. She couldn't remember how she had escaped. And what she did remember was more than enough for her.

"Eat."

The girl had barely touched her little food. After an entire day without, Evelyn just tried not to finish hers too quickly.

"I-I'm not hungry," the other stammered back softly in reply. Evelyn barely heard her.

The girl might have saved her life – nursing her back to health. But she hardly cared for being saddled with her. She had to find out what had happened to Imoen. That man who had taken her. Jaheira and the others. And a promise she had made long ago.

Ten _days_.

Ten days, she had been gone. Unconscious. Who knew how far they could have gotten by now. Who knew if they were even still alive. If they even thought _she_ was still alive. There was a lot of fire in those hazy memories. Burning, and lightning. It gave her enough reason to think that she might be dead now, at least.

Winter had set in when she could last put memories coherently back together. She had paid her last respects to her dead foster father back home in Candlekeep. But it was spring now, if she didn't miss her guess. Summer even, maybe, by the heat. How long had she really been gone? Months? She didn't dare think years.

Those thoughts ate away at her while she sat there. It was hard to remember the girl, she was so caught up in everything else. It was hard to remember that cesspit they were sitting in now. And it was hard to notice that voice as it broke in on them then.

"Hrrrm, what's this? A bootlicking knife-ears all grown up and sitting at the bar? _My_ bar?"

An overgrown man stomped in just behind the Elven girl and stuck his black-bearded face in hers. The girl glanced at him in surprise, and then hurriedly looked away. She started trembling all over anew.

"Ho, wait, Amalas," another man butted his shaved head in from the other side, leaning into the counter between the two women. "I remember this one. From the circus. Some sorta _flyin_' Elf."

The bearded man laughed richly. "Is that right, Henri?" He looked playfully baffled. "I don't see any wings on her!"

They were both pushing in on her. The Elf girl cringed there helplessly in between. Henri only grinned a toothy, yellow grin.

"I'd wager we could make her fly," he offered eagerly. "Right out a the bar." He looked up sharply to the man behind the counter. "How 'bout it, Lehtinan? Ye don't mind if we help ourselves to some extra space, do ya?"

The innkeeper only made an irritated, gurgling sound in his throat, sneering. Amalas slapped a fistful of coins down on the counter.

"He never does."

Henri chuckled to himself. Then he took the girl's arm in one, meaty hand. She was little more than a quivering mess.

"Leave her alone."

"Some drinks!" Amalas shouted over his coins, beard shaking.

Henri rounded on Evelyn. She was still gnawing away at that coarse bread.

"Or what?" he snapped, glaring her down.

His leg flew out from under him.

The man with the shaved head fell flat into the bar, jaw cracking against the wood. He toppled to the ground.

Aerie jumped at the suddenness of it. A moment later, and she managed to scramble away to the other side of Evelyn at the bar. The raven-haired woman just finished eating.

Henri was cursing into the floor, spitting blood. The other man, Amalas, shook his head.

"Oy!" he barked a laugh. "That little dolly girl thinks she's something tough, aye?" He just watched as his friend picked himself back up, bristling all over.

"I'll show the little bitch somethin' tough," he growled. And then his heavy fist landed on her shoulder to pull her out of the chair.

He never made it.

A loud crack sounded his broken arm The next, his face, as he slammed head first into the counter once more.

This time, he didn't get up.

Amalas shoved himself away from the bar, face twisting.

"Ye think yer tough, dolly girl?" he snarled through his beard in surprise, closing on her. "I'll pound ya into _meat_!"

He swung a fist at her. And missed.

Three blows. Two to the face, one to the gut. She was out of her chair. He swung again. Too slow. That arm twisted back out of joint. He cried out. Then his nose imploded.

She was standing over both men then. Her eyes flashed back up. All the tables nearest them had quieted down to a low mumble, stunned looks turned quickly to scowling. She paid them no mind.

But they had wasted enough time down in that hole, anyways.

Both of those men had cloaks. She took them. Their boots and coin purses too. She dumped one on top of the few coins already on the counter. The skinny wretch of an innkeeper blinked down at them, leering.

"A room," she told him. He eyed her dubiously a moment more. It was not hesitation, she was sure.

Then he reached back and heaved a key at her.

"Upstairs," he sneered. "On the left."

The girl still stood there. Dumbfounded. She stared wide-eyed at the bodies, breathing hard.

Evelyn just snatched the girl up and dragged her away.

And it wasn't until they were upstairs and she had locked the door behind them that the Elf girl finally opened her mouth again.

"Wh-who," she stammered, half scared out of her little wits. "Wh-who are you?"

The raven-haired woman ignored her, however. Instead, she grabbed a washbasin and started cleaning her muddy feet. She was a mess.

The girl watched her for a time. Then she was smart enough to follow suit. The dirty streets had spared neither of them in their hurried flight from the circus.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" Evelyn asked the other woman as they bathed in silence. She did not look at her.

After a moment, the girl only shook her head.

"N-no," she said.

"You can't stay with me," the raven-haired woman told her in turn. Aerie said nothing.

She was a mess. It took some time, and that mess was just a little less. Then she came to the boots. They were big – too big for her. She tore some of the sheets to stuff them. She laced them up tight.

"What are we going to d-do?" the girl asked when she saw the raven-haired woman make for the bed.

Her voice was so fragile, and lost. Evelyn didn't even bother to look at her.

She was already bound tightly up in the blankets before she bothered to answer. She didn't undress. Not even the boots.

"We'll see."

It was all she said. Then she turned over, and fell asleep.

It was the easiest she'd had in months.


	17. Chapter 2 In Shining Armor

_**In Shining Armor**_

Aerie jerked awake, gasping, and covered in sweat. For a moment, her back was on fire – so hot it was all she could do not to scream. So hot it stole the breath right out of her lungs. She clenched her teeth like she always did, biting her tongue through the blinding white memory of it.

It passed.

She let a hand dangle around her throat as she breathed again. It was still dark outside the small window of that room. Eventually, her heart stopped racing so fast.

But not before she heard footsteps outside the door.

She froze, staring at the shadows playing across that line of light under the door. There were voices. Heavy whispers. Even she couldn't make them out.

Someone was fidgeting with the handle.

Aerie swept a hand over to the other side of the bed. But it was empty. That other woman was gone.

"Just wait a purse-bleedin' second!" someone snapped loudly outside and she started, eyes wide.

Silence.

Then a key fitted into the hole from the other side.

The door unlocked with a faint click. The sound was deafening in her ears. She was already trembling there, alone in that stuffy, little hole. A moment more, and the door swung wide.

A man stepped in, blocking out the light from the hall behind. She snatched up the covers to her face, as if that might hide her. She could see the grin break across the other's face from across the room.

"Well, hello, lass," he said. "Just thought you could use a bit o' company this eve …"

He started in, a long, wicked knife in one hand. She tried to move, but was frozen stiff. Another man pressed in after.

The first closed on the bed, a playful smile stretched across his craggy face. The other stopped, glancing around. He held a short blade tight in hand.

"Come here, girlie …" the first cooed, creeping over the bed. The other scowled.

"Where's the other one?"

Aerie didn't wait, though. She just pulled herself down under the covers, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Someone cried out. Then there was a thud. Some grunting. The bed shook. A gasp. And another thud.

The sheets were snatched right out of her hand.

She started to scream. But a hand clapped down over her mouth. When she looked up, it was that raven-haired woman with her dead eyes staring back down.

"Let's go."

The other hauled her up, threw a cloak over her shoulders, and dragged her out into the hallway. They didn't make it two steps before someone clubbed the raven-haired woman upside the head.

Aerie stumbled back, hitting the door. The other woman toppled to the floor. A man stepped over her, straddling her to either side.

"Now, dolly girl," the man growled eagerly, "it's your turn to chew some wood."

The bearded man spared Aerie only a fleeting grin. Then he stomped the raven-haired woman's face with his bare foot.

Blood splattered the floor. Aerie felt her knees buckle, giving way. She could only watch as that man struck her again and again. Helplessly.

She was crying. Shaking. That other woman's face bruised even more. The flesh was like a beaten pulp after everything those two nights. Aerie wrapped her arms about her knees, uselessly choking on sobs.

"Not so quick now, are ye?" the man snarled down at her, beard bristling. "Oy, dolly girl?" He lifted his blood-smeared foot again.

And then he just suddenly wasn't there anymore.

Something took the bearded man clear off his feet. The Elven girl's eyes flashed up with a shrill gas. But the man lay sprawled out, wheezing on the floor behind. A mace clattered down along beside him.

She started as something else abruptly moved in the hallway. A cloaked figure she had not noticed before strode forward from the other end, closing on the two on the floor. He retrieved the mace, kicked the bearded man in the side of the head, and knelt swiftly over the raven-haired woman on the ground.

The other was already struggling to pull herself back up. Somehow, even under all that blood and broken flesh, she was still conscious. The figure slowed her with a hand.

"Easy, my lady," it urged quietly, "stay down." That hand forced her gently back down to the ground. "Do not fear. You are safe now."

At that cool, calming voice, Aerie finally got her sobs under control. Her chest still heaved, but she looked up at the other then.

"Th-thank you," she managed softly.

The hooded figure glanced at her, nodding his head.

"After you provoked them at the bar, I knew there would be more trouble."

The other woman was still trying to claw her way back up. It was frightening. Terrifying, coupled with everything the Elven girl had already seen of her. But the figure forced her to stay again with a hand. Eventually, she just stopped struggling.

"We need to move your friend somewhere safe."

That other didn't wait for her. It scooped up the raven-haired woman's limp form and started hurriedly away back down the hallway. The Elven woman only had to glance at the three men scattered about the ground.

She wasn't sure who was more frightening. But she wasn't about to stay there with them.

She hurried after.

* * *

The figure pushed open the door to a dark house, and vanished inside with the raven-haired woman. Aerie stepped in after him, hesitating for only another moment. The others were swallowed up in the gloom. And a knife slipped in at her neck.

She froze, squeezing her eyes painfully shut.

But it did not cut. A voice grated at her out of the stillness instead.

"Who are you?"

The black shifted. She swallowed down thickly.

"P-please … d-don't hurt me …"

A candle glimmered in the dark ahead of her. That hooded form was there, lighting it. It stood over the raven-haired woman's body.

"Let her be, Edmond," it said, and drew back its cowl. A handsome-looking man with a trimmed beard appeared beneath.

The knife retracted from Aerie's throat and she breathed hard in relief. Then that someone else pushed past her and closed the door. But not before glancing out furtively first.

"I am sorry, my lady," the other man – Edmond – apologized earnestly. "I did not mean to startle you."

The man returned to where he had been leaning between the door and the window, curtains parted only so that he could see as if nothing had happened. His eyes were intent on the drizzling streets without.

"What are they doing here, Anomen?" the man asked even so, peering through that window. "What of you mission to reconnoiter?"

The other was busy lying the raven-haired woman down upon the floor. He produced a case from the pack on his back and made a pillow of his cloak.

"These two were in trouble," he answered simply. He opened that case and started going to work cleaning the blood from the woman's face. "I saw fit to intervene."

"Did you also see fit to conclude your scouting, Anomen?" Edmond demanded. "For a champion of Helm, you certainly seem to cast your assigned duties about lightly."

"Hmph," he scoffed. "Scouting is for squires," and grinned a little. "My glory will come in the battle."

The other glanced back at him, irritated.

"You are not a sworn knight yet, Anomen. Best you have a better reason for the Inquisitor when he demands his intelligence."

"Do not worry, my friend," Anomen flashed the other a disarming grin. "We shall see each other on the other side."

Edmond turned away without another word. Anomen finished with the unconscious woman a few minutes later and stood to clasp a hand to the Elf girl's shoulder. For her part, Aerie had just stayed still and tried not to garner any more attention.

"Do not worry, my lady," the man told her gently anyways. "Your friend will be alright. You will both be safe here for now."

She managed to nod her head, simply. He squeezed her arm encouragingly in response.

It wasn't long after that some else came.

Heavy footsteps sounded. Then a door opened. A moment later, that someone else strode into the room. He was much older than the other two, gray streaks cutting through his steely beard and hair like strokes of lightning. Tall, even among those others, he was sheathed in a heavy cloak, but she could easily see the thick metal plates underneath. They caught the candlelight, and gleamed.

Edmond spared the older man a deferential bow of his head before returning to his vigil.

"Sir Firecam."

"Squire Marquess," he returned the greeting. Then let his eyes fall heavily on Anomen.

"Squire Delryn," he started anew, the faintest air of irritation tinging his voice. "You should not have returned from your task so soon."

It was not a question. But the younger man straightened and answered it anyways.

"These two women were attacked in their room by several men at the tavern, Sir," he explained smartly. "I intervened on their behalf."

The older man nodded after a moment, eying the two. "That was good of you," he said. "But not part of your assignment. Make your report."

The younger man stiffened again. Then he began telling the other of what he had seen. Aerie stood quietly to one side, trying to evade any more notice. And when Anomen was finished, the older man only stared at him for a few, long moments.

Then he turned to the other.

"Squire Marquess."

"Sir?"

"Take Squire Baronholt ahead into the tavern and hold position," he gestured with his head. "We will suit up and follow inside of the hour."

"Aye, Sir," the squire canted his head sharply and moved past back deeper into the house without another word. The older man moved to turn away as well. But Anomen called him hastily back.

"What about me, Sir?" The old man glanced briefly back at him.

"Since you have taken it upon yourself not to do as you were told, this is your concern no longer."

He looked to the Elven woman of a sudden, and Aerie swallowed in surprise. Those eyes were not nearly so terrible, though. Stern, but gentle.

"Have you anywhere safe to go, my Lady?" he asked. At Aerie's quick shake of the her head, he turned back to Anomen.

"Take them back to the Order," he told the other. "_That_ is your concern now."

The younger man opened his mouth quickly to say something more. But at the other's raised brow, he thought better of it. He bowed his head instead, face red beneath his beard.

"Aye, Sir."

The older man turned. And left.

Anomen just stood there for almost a minute, unmoving. And when he finally turned back around, his face had darkened in the light. He didn't look at her as he spoke.

"Follow me."

* * *

Evelyn felt a hand on her face. She snatched it in her one of her own, twisting back. The other, she slammed into the side of the other's head.

A man tumbled away and down to the floor with a grunt. She was on top of him in a second, fist drawn back once more.

"Who are you?" she hissed, baring her teeth at him. He threw his hands up, trembling.

"A simple initiate p-priest, dear lady!" he babbled up at her, terrified. Those eyes squeezed fiercely shut. "The-the Vigilant One watch over us …"

She narrowed hers at him.

"Helm?"

He shook his head fiercely.

"Y-yes, dear lady."

She let her fist ease. Before she could lower it, though, someone stepped in and hauled her up by that arm.

"My lady–!"

She twisted easily free. That other's own arm wrenched around behind his back.

The man cried out in surprise, but she shoved him away. The initiate priest still lay on the floor, too afraid to move.

"Who are _you_?" she demanded anew. Then glanced around at the clean walls and marble floors. "Where did you bring me?"

She was long past tired of waking up to strangers' faces in only the Hells knew where. A circus, the slums, and now some chapel. She hid already done all the sight-seeing she could have ever hoped to. Unconscious.

"You were attacked, my lady," the standing man with his short-trimmed beard said. He had thrown his hands up placatingly as well. "Do you not remember?"

She remembered. Trying to escape the inn.

"These are the halls of the Order of the Radiant Heart," he continued when he saw her eyes still darting about. "You are safe here now, my lady."

Eventually, she narrowed them at him instead.

"Don't call me that."

He blinked, but she relaxed her stance. At least, she was not threatening to beat them to death with her bare hands anymore. With a curt nod from the bearded man, the priest initiate bounced back to his feet. He gathered up some compresses and poultices and left in a hurry.

Evelyn turned back to the other once the boy had gone.

"Who are you?" she demanded again.

"Anomen Delryn," he declared proudly with an almost dashing grin. "Warrior priest of Helm and squire knight to the noble Order of the Radiant Heart. At your service, my lady," he added with a bow. "Might I know your name in return?"

She eyed him for a moment. Then the doors at the head of that room where the priest had fled through. She looked back to him.

"Evelyn," she said simply. Then she frowned at him.

"Where is the girl?"

"Evelyn, is it?" he mused good-naturedly. "I would have thought something a little more southern by the look of you. Forgive me, my lady," he bowed his head politely, "but your companion has been settled elsewhere in the compound. She was fortunate enough to be unscathed and is resting."

Evelyn studied him for a few seconds. He smiled kindly in return.

"Would you like to see her now?"

"No," she said. And looked back away.

"You can take care of her now."

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" he took a step forward when he couldn't hear her.

Her eyes flashed back to him. Her feet had shifted a step back at his on their own.

"I need to leave," she said instead.

He frowned at her, brow creasing.

"You took several savage blows to the head, my lady," he explained gently. "What you _need_ is several more days of rest."

She opened her mouth again to protest. But the door abruptly swung all the way open. A young man appeared there, breathless and face flushed.

"They told me you were here, brother Anomen," the other gasped excitedly.

"Mikhail!" the bearded man greeted just as elatedly. "You have returned?" He was stepping toward the other man.

Mikhail swallowed, bobbing his head. "_Oh_, you should have been there, brother Anomen," he laughed. "Those slavers fled like vermin. But we caught them before they could scurry away back to their holes!"

Anomen clapped a hand to the other man's shoulder. "You were victorious then?"

Mikhail shook his head, beaming gallantly.

"It was glorious, brother Anomen," he said. "Squire Marquess took the head of the slavers' leader himself." The man clasped his own hand on Anomen's other shoulder. "Evil in this city was struck a deadly blow this past eve, dear brother."

The bearded man looked past the other then. "How does everyone fare?" he asked.

"Minor wounds, nothing more. Marquess has been recommended for knighthood."

Anomen's dark eyes came instantly back. They fixed on the other.

He seemed taken aback by that.

"His … knighthood?" he breathed.

"Yes," Mikhail assured him, canting his ruddy head, "Sir Firecam has made the recommendation himself."

Anomen pushed past him without another word. Mikhail blinked in surprise, then seemed to notice Evelyn there for the first time. He bowed his head.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lady," he said all in one hurried breath. Then he took off after the other man.

Evelyn was let standing there alone. And she couldn't quite help wondering which time she had woken up since Candlekeep had been worst.

But she knew.


	18. Chapter 2 Blood Fiend

_**Blood Fiend**_

A fist pounded down against the wall. And Evelyn ducked back out of sight.

The knights or paladins or whoever had left her alone. Long enough for her to examine their handiwork and plot her escape. She could barely remember the inn after someone had struck her hard in the head. The few cuts and heavy swelling had been mostly tended to before she even woke up.

Her eyes crept back around the edge of the hall. That young squire with his trimmed beard and boyish hair was there, head leaning into arm against the wall. His whole body bristled with frustration.

"Too arrogant," he muttered loudly. "Cannot follow _simple_ orders," he continued, pushing furiously away. "Just because I do not blindly follow! Just because I _think_ … !"

He twisted away with an irritated sound in his throat. Evelyn pulled back behind the corner, waiting. But those heavy steps grew closer. And by the time she was halfway down the other hall, he had rounded the corner.

"My lady?" he called out in surprise, and she growled in her throat, fists balling at her sides. He made to catch up with her, even as she continued stomping away. "You should be in your quarters. Resting."

"I'm fine," she told him. Firmly. "I need to leave."

She had already wasted far too much time.

"I must beg your pardon, dear lady," he protested politely, "but you are not. Please," he gestured with a hand, "if you will allow me to see you back to your room?"

She looked at him.

Then she turned briskly away.

The other way.

It ook him until the end of the next hallway to catch up again.

"My lady! My lady, please!" He called after, coming up beside her. "You are not well." He caught her arm in his hand.

She twisted instantly out of his grip, shoving him roughly back a step. He stumbled, as surprised at that sudden strike as before. But he was lucky that was all she did.

"Don't touch me."

She pushed on without another word, trying to find her own way out. It wasn't hard. If she kept marching around she had to find the main hall eventually. And she did.

"My lady!" the squire protested anew. But he quieted abruptly when she strode out into that great hall with its vaulted ceilings, wide arches, painted glass, and noble statues. A few men milled about – priests and knight, she imagined. The bearded man kept his tongue and trotted along anxiously at her side.

It wasn't until she had broken free and was out under the hot noonday sun for the first time in a lifetime that he finally opened his mouth again. And by then, he was nearly apoplectic.

"My lady!" he cried, hurrying down the stone steps leading to the city streets. He swung around in front of her, blocking her path.

"You were my charge and my responsibility once I brought you into these halls!" he tried to explain, all but shouting at her in exasperation. "Duty and honor _dictate_ that I cannot allow you to leave until at least I–"

But she just pushed him out of her way. He stumbled over with a sharp grunt, tripping on the steps. She was already to the street before he could catch up with her once more.

"My lady," he ventured again, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "What of your companion? Surely you do not intend to just leave her behind!"

She ignored him. Or tried to. The white alabaster streets of that district of the city was a sight cleaner and grander than the slums she had found herself in before. In her ragged clothes and oversized boots, she was out of place. But she doubted what she needed was there anyways.

She took off down one of those grand boulevards. The squire knight trotted along behind her, growing angrier by the moment. Eventually, he just grabbed her arm.

"My lady, I must _insist_ you–"

But he didn't get a chance to finish that demand.

The heel of her fist struck him square in the nose. He gasped. But before he could even breathe, she swung him up and around against the side of a building, burying her forearm in his throat.

"Listen to me," she began slowly, threateningly. "I don't have time to waste with you anymore."

His eyes still roved around, stunned. She dug in just a little bit deeper until they fixed on hers.

"If you don't stop following me, I will make it so you can't follow anyone. Ever."

The last she punctuated with an almost too sweet flash of her teeth.

She released him. Abruptly. He stumbled forward into empty space, gasping and choking with a hand to his throat.

And that was where she left him. She vanished swiftly into the noonday crowds.

* * *

It was getting dark.

Anomen shifted impatiently where he stood, securely hidden behind the lip of a small tanner's shop. The stink of animal hide was unbearable, and his face twisted beneath his trimmed beard in disgust. It made him cast aside the sticky, sweet orange he had been eating into the dirty street.

Some urchin boy snatched it up in an instant and scurried off.

He never let his eyes far from the young woman. She stood hidden herself, across from him in the city square beneath the eaves of one of the finer taverns of that city – the Five Flagons. He had gone there once or twice himself before. The plays were quite good.

The fruit and the smell left an acrid taste in his mouth he could not lose, though. He tried to ignore it by studying the other. She had led him on a haphazard chase all over the city all afternoon. She didn't know he had followed her, of course. He had kept his distance and out of sight. Hours, and hours, of trudging about the streets of the city and he didn't even have a clue as to what she was looking for. And he had decided some time ago that it was not something she was running from, as he had originally thought.

She was in some sort of trouble, however. Of that, he was certain. He supposed it didn't help that she reminded him so much of his sister, Moira. Brash. Willful. Arrogant and headstrong. He might not have continued chasing her otherwise. After his dismissal from the mission on the Copper Coronet's slaver ring and Edmond's promised knighting though …

She had stopped in that square over an hour ago for no reason he could see. And then she had settled in there, just out of sight. It took him a little while, but he realized that she had been following someone as well.

After that, it had not taken him much longer to decide just who she was spying on. A couple of ruffians were lounging about on another side of the square, keeping to themselves and eying the crow. He thought he recognized something familiar about them, but he couldn't quite figure out what.

Now night was coming on. The crowds thinned.

A few hours later, and it was only them in that square alone.

Still, the men did not leave. Their faces were half-hidden beneath cloaks, their voices light and furtive. They hadn't noticed the woman, or him, hiding in the dark and watching.

Nor did they. Until that raven-haired woman stepped right out into the dim night to meet them.

The two men stopped talking, and immediately leapt to their feet. Blades flashed into hand. Anomen started around the corner, ready to intervene. That was, until he realized that they had not seen her yet. She seemed to realize it too, and froze there, staring.

Someone else appeared in the square then – shadows giving birth to a cloaked, faceless figure.

"Get down," Anomen growled under his breath at the woman as he watched. She couldn't have heard him, but she ducked partially out of sight even so.

That hooded figure started toward the two men. A few moments passed, tense, hushed voices darting back and forth. It took another few minutes, but the two men eventually lowered their weapons.

They spoke for a little while then, there in the dark. Anomen managed to creep a little closer so that he could hear. He ducked down behind an old wagon.

"You know this is the only choice," that hooded figure was saying. "Be sensible."

One of the men nodded.

"You do paint a rather pretty picture. But I heard some nasty stuff about what happens to those who join."

"Rumors and hearsay," the figure assured him. "I am here before you. You may take what I say at my word, or you will end like all the others will."

"See?" the other man stabbed a vindictive finger forward. "There you go threatening!"

A moment later he was shrugging his shoulders.

"Though, I suppose my own guild has threatened no less."

He shook his head.

"I just don't know."

"You do," the figure cooed gently. "You just haven't said it out loud yet."

Anomen looked to the raven-haired woman only half-hidden behind a cooper's barrel. He suddenly wished he had a weapon. And his armor. He had taken neither in his pursuit of the young woman. And something about that entire situation just felt wrong. It was gnawing away steadily at his nerves. While he just sat there in the dark.

"You know it is in your best interests …"

After another few moments, the first man simply waved a hand.

"No," he declared. "I have no _interest_ in betraying my guild." His eyes narrowed on the other. "I do not believe your lies. I have heard the stories …"

"Mere stories," the figure laughed. A rich, woman's laugh. "Told to frighten you into staying with a dying organization. Why else would they fear competition? Because they are weak."

The second man was stroking a hand to his face thoughtfully. The first was still adamant.

"No! We have lost some members. But they did _not_ go willingly."

"Nonsense," the figure scoffed lightly. "They were as free in their wills as you are now. As you are _… now_ …"

No one spoke for a few moments. Then the first man abruptly pushed away.

"Enough of this!" he growled. "We are done here. Go _back_ to your mistress."

He started away. But the cloaked figure merely laughed. He did not make it five steps before stopping dead in his tracks.

Everything was still for a moment. Everything but that man. The whole square caught its breath. And so did he. He turned slowly back around.

Then he blinked. He blinked at the other man.

Another moment and he was pitching sideways to his knees. For the next, he caught himself. Then then he toppled right over. A knife was buried deep inside his back.

The other man had thrown it. The hooded figure only stepped up to him, drawing a white hand gently alongside his face.

"There, isn't that better?" she soothed. "Whom do you serve now?" Her hand kept caressing him softly.

"Shhh, yes. I know."

Anomen had closed his mouth. It had been hanging open. He watched, dumbfounded, as that hooded creature just stroked the man lovingly. As if he were some kind of … of _pet_.

They might have stood there all night. That perversion. But something broke the silence. That raven-haired young woman broke the silence.

Something clattered to the cobblestones. It echoed loudly in the night.

The woman had lurched up to her feet, that dead man having collapsed right into where she was hidden. Those barrels toppled over, rolling against stone. And the hooded figure hissed, spinning around. It did so just in time to see Evelyn throw them both a wide-eyed look of surprise before taking off down the deserted street.

The cloaked woman vanished. The man pulled free another knife and let it fly. It scored on stone, dusting the raven-haired woman in mortar.

Anomen leapt to his feet, snapping free one of the cart handles. The man had already taken off at a dead sprint. The squire only slowed enough to snatch that dagger free from the dead man's back in his other hand before charging after.

They didn't make it far. The girl disappeared somewhere in the maze of shadows ahead. He could still see that man rushing away, though. The breath was hot in his ears.

Then the man went down. Anomen came skidding to a halt. The young woman flew out of the dark and slammed a fist down into the fallen man's face.

Anomen threw himself back hastily against the wall of a building. His back thumped against stone, eyes fixed ahead at them. But she had not seen him yet. The girl turned and started away. But the man got back up.

Evelyn stopped.

That knife came up in one hand. She started to run around.

Then it came free.

The girl started in surprise as the steel flung wide past her head. A moment later, the man pitched down to his knees.

Evelyn stared at the dying man. Then glanced upward, squinting into the dark. But the squire was pressed flat back against the wall again, blanketed in the night. She couldn't see him.

So she turned back away.

And that hooded figure was waiting there behind.

Evelyn froze, dead in her tracks. Anomen caught his breath from the other side of the street. He hadn't even seen that thing until was on top of the girl.

It sniffed the air loudly. And settled on her.

"Hello, godchild."

The girl lifted up into the air and hurtled away. She tumbled down the street past the fallen man with a sharp cry.

For a moment – one, terrible moment – Anomen stood there, frozen still. That breath choked his throat as he watched the raven-haired woman sail past. He had barely seen that cloaked figure move.

It sniffed the air visibly again, gliding along after the woman. The squire could feel its eager breath even from there.

"I can taste the dead god in your veins," it said, sifting closer. It swayed from side to side as if dancing. "The stink of divine murder paints the very air," she all but sang. "Such _wonder_ful colors …"

Evelyn had regained just enough sense to push herself back up from the ground. She coughed blood into the stone, and started crawling away.

The hooded figure sucked in a shaky breath, trembling with anticipation.

"Ohhhh," she moaned rapturously. "Just a bite. Just a little taste! Nothing more. A little dead god on my tongue …"

The girl kept inching away. Then the other snatched a pale handful of tunic and cloak. The raven-haired woman's whole body leapt up above the air with a sharp gasp.

The other spun her right around.

"Come here, my lovely little pet," she cooed, cradling the woman with that hand in her back as if she were nothing more than a child. Those dark eyes were flung wide. Terrified.

"Shhhh," the figure continued soothingly, stroking a hand down the side of the girl's face. "Don't cry. This won't hurt at all …"

One of those fingers abruptly stabbed into the freshly dried cuts on her skull and started digging around. The sound of the raven-haired woman crying out echoed shrilly into the night.

"Shhh-shh-shh … No, not a bit."

Anomen was moving then. He managed to throw himself away from the building, rushing toward the hooded figure and bellowing all the way. Something caught his foot, and he slammed face-first into the street. The other didn't even bother to notice.

Two of those fingers pulled back and dove beneath the hood. It fell back at the sudden tilt of the head, both buried to the joint in the mouth of a beautiful woman beneath.

She sucked hard on those two fingers, her whole body visibly tensing. Her face contorted with an almost painful look. A sharp moan escaped her lips.

Then she stabbed the girl again, scraping away more of her blood.

Anomen tried to stand. But something forced him back down. There were fingers on his back. He twisted around only to see that man with the knife in his back clawing his way up the squire. He sent an elbow crashing hard into the other's skull.

He was stumbling back to his feet then, dazed, the twice-over dying man tumbling away. Anomen dug around beneath the collar of his coat and fished out the pendant from around his neck. He thrust it out in front of him.

"I do not know what you are, foul creature," he started shouting at it, stalking forward, "but in Helm's name I–"

That hand she had been licking clean of the girl's blood abruptly snatched a hold of his coat instead and launched him into the air. He crashed down headfirst through a stack of crates on the other side of the street.

Evelyn reeled her head back. She managed to throw it right into the other's.

That beautiful woman snapped back, eyes flashing open. Then she grabbed the girl's bleeding skull in one hand. And tossed her away.

The raven-haired woman hurtled away, twisting over against the ground. The other drew her tongue across the full length of her hand and shivered, wildly.

"Such music!" she laughed. And took a step after the girl. "Come here, my pretty little god …"

Those eyes flashed red.

Anomen roared with everything that was him, leaping back to his feet. Helm's holy symbol dangled from his clenched fist. He smashed it right into the woman from behind.

And she vanished.

The night swallowed that woman up as if she had never been, hissing vengeance and fury. His hand touched only thin air and shadow. It left him swiping at nothing. Alone there in the dead of night.

Everything went still.

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Eyes darting every which way. Then he rounded on the girl. She was on her elbows, staring up at him. Wide-eyed.

"My lady," he breathed hard. He stuffed the pendant hurriedly back inside his coat. "Are you alright?" He took a step to kneel down at her side.

But he never got that far. He stopped, and grunted instead.

His eyes fell down. His whole chest seemed to seize up all at once. But it was his stomach that had a hole punched right through it. The fist was still jutting out in front, drenched in his own blood.

A head came up beside him from behind. It sniffed at the nape of his neck.

"Paladins," the woman's voice uttered in disgust after a moment.

Then it pulled free and away. And he pitched down into black.


	19. Chapter 2 Sticks and Stones

_**Sticks and Stones**_

"Jaheira."

She looked up. And there was an old friend striding toward her.

"Rylock!"

The half-Elven woman bounced up to her feet. The man caught her in a fierce hug.

"I must say," he chuckled after a few moments, "I almost did not expect to see you after the last time you left."

He turned her aside with a grin. "How are you feeling?"

It was an effort to stand. That much she tried her best to keep from being painfully obvious. Even after what the healers had done for her, she still felt weak all over. She knew that wasn't what he meant, though.

That blow was still too sudden. Too … soon.

And the other seemed to realize that.

"Galvarey," he cleared his throat, and changed the subject both, "has been given your message. And your … request." He mused over the word just a little.

"And?" she pressed after a moment when he did not immediately continue.

"And he has agreed to your request."

Jaheira eyed him even so. For a moment, from the sound of that hesitation in his voice, she was sure she had been denied. Sure, Galvarey and her did not always see eye to eye. None of them did. But the news was good. Better than she had hoped considering their history. But …

"But why do I get the feeling there is something I do not wish to hear?"

She folded her arms across her chest. It was not so imperious as it had once been. It almost felt … defensive – now. The other rounded slowly back on her with a rueful grin.

"You know me too well," he said.

She only nodded her head.

"Galvarey," he began anew, sobering. "And he is not alone in this," he interrupted himself quickly, leveling her with an eye, "is of a mind to help. He believes this is even more important than you might realize."

"But …" she pressed again.

"But he wishes you to stay out of it," the man said at the last. "For now, at least."

She blinked at him. Then she frowned. Then she scowled.

"What does _that_ mean, Rylock?"

The man sighed, even before she answered. And turned away. He walked a little ways over to an alcove, idly staring into the harp and crescent moon bannerette there.

"You have suffered, Jaheira," he continued then, "that is easy enough to see." He sighed again. "They do not believe you should be … burdened … with this task so soon after …"

He trailed off. He did not have to say it.

The half-Elven woman stepped right up to him, though.

"She is the daughter of my oldest and dearest friend," she all but hissed in his ear, scorching his hatcheted face with her dark eyes. "Gorion all but _named_ Khalid and I her godparents." He did not look back at her, though.

And she stood there, fuming, at his elbow. He almost refused to even acknowledge it.

Eventually, her frail body bled out some of that rising hate.

He finally looked back around.

"She is all I have left," she added, helplessly, at the last.

"We will find her, Jaheira," the man told her simply. "You have my word."

But she snatched at his arm before he could turn away.

"Let _me_ find her," she said. Pleaded. All the burning vehemence in her voice only made her sound as desperate as she really was.

But the man shook his head.

"You have done enough already, Jaheira," he assured her. His hand squeezed her shoulder firmly.

"Let those who harp share some of the burden of one of their own."

He smiled at her. Encouragingly. And he started them both walking again with that gentle hand.

"I have another matter that needs looking into," he began anew, pulling her away in more ways than one. "But I am afraid it is outside my expertise."

He continued to talk as they walked, but she only half heard him. Somehow she seemed so far away from everything, and powerless, now. Try as she might, she could not keep that dead face out of her mind. She didn't think she really wanted to anymore.

"A druid from Tethyr came through here several weeks ago, complaining of some disturbances in the Circle in the forests near the town of Tradesmeet."

She had lost track of time in the chapel of Ilmater. Haunted by the ghosts of old friends. They seemed to attack her in legion now – always with Khalid's beautiful, dead face at their head. They would not go away.

"Apparently," he related, "the druids there had been becoming aggressive of late and threatening the village."

The ashes she had awoken to were too bitter. She could not let herself dare enough to think. That way led destruction. And she could not die. Not yet. Someone else owed her a life of blood first.

"We have heard nothing from the druid since," Rylock continued, dragging her forward. "Our own people have confirmed his reports, and the word is not good."

She never learned what had happened to that man who seemed so determined to help them either. The first chance she had gotten, she had had Minsc tell her fellow Harpers where to find her. She had known she could trust them at least. And their secret compound in the city was safe harbor enough for a time.

The other stopped again. And rounded on her.

"I am to go to Tradesmeet to see if I cannot defuse the situation before it becomes too severe. I, Renfield, and a few others," he told her. "And I would like you to come with us."

She blinked away her thoughts and looked up at him of a sudden, brow furrowing. She started to shake her head, incredulous.

"You refuse me my _own_ task and give me another?" she asked, taken aback at that stupidity. "I thought I was _unfit_ to do anything …?"

The man sighed, heavily. It was becoming irritating. He rested that hand again on her shoulder.

"This is not an assignment, Jaheira," he said. "It is a request. From one old friend to another." And shook his head. "I am no druid. Neither are any of the others. We do not know their ways, and I could use your expertise." He mused thoughtfully for a moment. "You would be more consultant than field agent in this regard."

Then he tried to bolster her with another encouraging grin.

"Let your friends take care of this one burden for you. Athkatla is a big city. By the time we get back, Galvarey will have found this girl for you."

She stared at him, scowling. He only squeezed those fingers tighter.

"Think of it," he said slowly, "as … therapeutic."

And he smiled just like that friend of old.

* * *

The hooded figure did not slow as he reached the corner of the street. But he stopped once he got there. He stopped dead in his tracks. And stuck a knife up to the other's throat.

"Stop following me."

The other man spread his hands placatingly, dragged out into the light by that scythed steel at his neck. He did not seem too terrified considering he had been lying there around the corner in wait and had no idea that the hooded figure even knew he was there. But the man with the dagger had not gotten as far as he had without a deadly eye for predators. And prey.

"What makes you think that I'm following you?" the skulking man asked, unworriedly. He almost sounded amused, instead.

The hooded figure pushed the other's cowl back quickly with his knife. The browned, honey-colored face beneath was not from anywhere around those parts. It smiled back at him.

He had also seen it before. Once, in the Promenade that morning. Again, just before noon in the city slums at a place called the Copper Coronet. And finally, now, as he was leaving the priests' district of the city. In the dead of night.

"You are following me," he repeated himself. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

The other man beamed at him like a child caught in a playful trick. The hooded figure pushed the curved dagger a little higher up his throat.

The honey-skinned man only pushed a little back.

"How do you know I was not following … _them_?"

The other gestured slightly with his head. The hooded figure kept the man at arm's length with the knife as he glanced back over his shoulder.

They weren't alone on that street then. Or at least, not for long. The Shadows were moving. They peeled themselves away from alleys and corners, lampposts and storage crates, rubbish heaps and limp banners. Men. Leather and soft-soled boots. Assassins. And they were all making swiftly, and silently, for _him_.

He rounded back on the other, baring his teeth beyond that knife.

"What do they want?" he growled. But that honey-skinned man seemed unperturbed.

"They are _your_ friends," he merely shrugged.

The man with the knife glared at him for another moment. Then he twisted away.

They closed fast. Half a dozen men. Maybe more hidden close by. Dark cloaks and cowls. Wetwork. Contract killing. Or so he thought. Until he saw that face.

One of them pulled his hood down. It was the same Shadow Thief from the tavern on the docks.

"This does not look like the woman you were after, bounty hunter," the thief said, eying the honey-skinned man standing against the wall. "In fact," he squinted, "it looks much more like …"

He trailed off for a moment, musing. Then his eyes widened.

"Yoshimo?"

The honey-skinned man straightened his coat.

"Lin," he greeted with that same simple smile.

The Shadow Thief quickly overturned his surprise with anger. Then he rounded on the hooded figure.

"Tell me, _bounty hunter_," he began anew. That tone was far warier now. "Have you had any success in locating the girl?"

He just stared back at the thief. He didn't say a word.

The other – Lin – tried to hide his irritation at that with an amicable grin.

"I thought we were to help you," the thief coaxed after a few silent moments.

"You were," he said in turn, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me what you know and I will decide how much coin you are worth."

But the thief only gave him a bitter, rueful look. He shook his head.

"I am afraid you are not the only one interested in that girl," the thief explained. "She brought many an _uncomfortable_ response to my inquiries. A few too many raised brows at her mention, so to speak." His lips twitched upwards briefly at that.

"Either way," he added with another grin, "she is apparently far more valuable than you. So I will give you _one_," he thrust a solitary finger up, "chance to reconsider our … _help_."

The honey-skinned man sounded as if he were laughing quietly to himself. The thief rounded on him in an instant.

"Something you find amusing, Yoshimo," he demanded angrily. The foreign man only shook his head.

"Well," the thief said when neither of them spoke, "I do hope you think the girl is worth your life." He pulled a slim blade free from his coat. "Because that's what she's worth and more to the men on whose good graces you tread so lightly."

Steel creaked everywhere all around. They might have been hidden there in the dark, but not to the cloaked figure's eyes. Each of those men had a weapon in hand. Dangerous enough, and every side besides. The foreign man seemed no more frightened than he.

"And you, Yoshimo," the thief added, scowling. "_You_ can join him."

"Me?"

The honey-skinned man stepped over beside the hooded figure in the midst of all those thieves.

"Do you think you brought enough men this time, Lin?"

That other merely grunted.

"I think I brought enough to gut two bounty hunting trash," was all he said.

The foreign man smiled at him, tipping his head.

"They have a saying where I come from," he spoke aloud, wielding that amused look like a weapon. "The hawk breaks the back of its prey not from strength."

He flourished a hand.

"But from timing."

A tiny bit of steel flashed in his fingers. And just as quickly vanished again. It buried itself in one of the thieves' necks.

"And a talented hawk hides its claws."

A foot of elegantly curved steel slipped down from beneath the honey-skinned man's cloak even as those thieves leapt for him. It struck like a sliver of moonlight, spraying the fine blood of first one man, and then another, as they came at him. Smooth, deadly circles sweeping out into clawing night.

The man with the knife didn't waste a moment. He buried that scythed dagger in the gut of one thief. The next, he sliced wide open across the throat. A third caught his fist in the nose, and his steel in the back.

There were no more after that.

He looked up. The last one was fleeing, taking off swiftly down the street on silent feet. Yoshimo slipped his slender blade back wherever it had come from, and grinned.

"Lin," he said with a playful nod of his head. "Let him run."

But the hooded figure was already reaching over his shoulder.

"No."

He drew back on the bow in his hands then. And loosed.

The thief didn't make it very far.

Yoshimo watched as the Shadow Thief stumbled and pitched over into the street with that arrow through the back of his neck. He shrugged.

"Now," he began anew, almost cheerfully. "Where were we?" And mused. "I believe you thought me an enemy."

"And what are you now?"

The honey-skinned man smiled agreeably at him.

"A friend of course. Lin was not lying," he said. "You are hardly the only one looking for that girl."

"And what is she to you?" he demanded.

And the other only shrugged.

"Someone to get to first."

* * *

She was crying.

Tears rolled down from her eyes. Her cheeks. Staining her clothes. She bawled. Great sobs wracked her chest. It was the most pitiful sound she had ever made. The most pitiful _he_ had ever made.

All the while, a woman was carrying him in her arms.

"Shhh," she soothed, "smoothing over his short, dark hair. "I have you. You are a big boy."

Those words did little to soothe the cuts and bruising, though. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. And yet, he was always surprised when it made him feel just that much better.

She set him back down once they were away. She set him down and held him. It helped ease the pain. Eventually, he even stopped crying.

"Now, let me see."

The woman looked him over. She felt her fingers tenderly to his broken and battered skin. He was like a beaten, pulpy mess all over.

She sighed. Worriedly. But she tried to keep it from him. She gave him a comforting smile.

"You will live, I think," she almost joked. As if it were. Not to her, but to him. To him it was. He had let it happen again as he had so often before.

"You must learn to keep out of your brothers' way," she scolded. Or tried to. The warning was useless as always. She knew he could no more avoid the two older boys than he could their inevitable beatings.

"They are _not_ my brothers," was all he said.

And she stopped wiping the mud from his face. She looked at him. Hard.

"You know you cannot speak of such things."

He returned that admonishing stare. It was one hardness in her gentle heart. He never had understood it. She should not have protected them. They weren't even her own children. They had been mothered by some other unfortunate slave to their father's passions. _Their_ father. He had taken a fancy to that woman as well. But she bore him no children of her own. He thought that was why she liked him so much. They were both orphans.

He had been weak. As he had been every time before. His two older siblings had goaded him into a fight he could not win. He was still too small. But they seemed so fascinated with his ability not to break and die, no matter how hard they would beat him down into the ground. And it always ended the same. That woman would be beaten again for coddling him. She always was.

He looked up at her. That hard eye melted away for him. He could barely remember his own mother now. She was long dead and gone from him anyhow.

She smiled at him and he hardened. He stood there broken and bruised as she cleaned him of his shame, but he was unyielding.

"I have something for you," she said. And his eyes softened and brightened as she came back around when he saw what was in her hands. She handed him the leather-bound book.

He could not resist feeling the cover. Running his fingers along the spine. The woman smiled anew at the sight. It was his one soft pleasure. Reading. Learning. Knowledge. Somehow, it set him apart and above from the others.

"Come," the woman beckoned, standing. "We can read it together."

Time stomped on in a blur. It always did once he buried his head in some new book. He hardly noticed when the woman had stopped reading with him. She could barely read at all, anyways. He hardly noticed when father got home too. And she slipped out of the room.

It was some time before he did. The house had gone quiet. It was late, and he was sure his brothers were asleep. All he could hear were the woman's and his father's voices echoing softy down the hall outside.

He left. He followed the sound. He knew what was to follow. He knew what always happened. Still, he tip-toed toward it on tender feet. He reached their room, and came up against the keyhole in the door where their voices bled through.

"They beset the little runt again, did they not? Do not try to deny it. They told me themselves …"

The man's back was to him. The woman must have just been beyond. He could barely hear anything they said.

"… I do not care for your pitiful excuses. It is my place to decide as I see fit. You have _no_ power, and _no_ vision …"

The boy switched back and forth between pressing his ear to that hole to hear, and his eye to see. Neither afforded him much. But the man's powerful voice was forceful. Insistent.

"… the streets that day, to die in obscurity! No … you have no understanding as to what stars you trifle with. There is a reason for everything I do, and you are too insignificant to judge …"

There was a loud crack. When the boy moved to look, the woman was on the floor, face as bruised and bleeding as his own had been. The man paced slowly about her.

"… useless," he said. "You have no right to question me, but you do. Again, and again, you impede his progress. I am weary of you …"

Another crack. The woman cried out. And then the man grunted. Shifting.

The boy twisted his head hurriedly back to see.

The woman had a few more open cuts from the man's heavy rings on her face. She was clamping her teeth down hard on his leg as he watched. The man snatched her up by the hair, and struck her hard with the back of his hand. Picked her up again. And struck her again.

The boy watched, as he had so often before. He watched as that man that called himself father beat down the woman he put up as his mother into the ground.

Usually, it went on longer. Usually, he could be at that for nearly an hour. But not that night. Something was different that night. The way she fought back, as futile as it was. The swiftness with which his hands moved. Or the eagerness of the sharp blows.

They eventually settled for clasping down around the woman's neck. She gasped out shrilly, grabbing at his hands. The look in his eyes was fierce. But cold.

She struggled for a little while as the boy watched. She kicked her feet helplessly into the ground. But it had to end eventually. One last, choking spasm.

And then it was over. The woman lay still.

The man got to his feet. He held his hands out, disgusted at the blood that flecked them. He held them out in front of himself as if he were afraid to let them touch, and infect, anything else.

He started towards the door.

The boy fell over backward in surprise. He couldn't even think to try to flee. It didn't matter. And then the door was open, and the man was standing over him.

Their eyes met for a moment. Just a moment.

Then the man grunted a soft laugh.

"See to that mess, boy," he said simply, amusedly. He stepped over the boy and away.

He was left alone with another dead mother then. The boy stood over her a long time. He wasn't sure just what he thought about, or felt. Something about the gasping pleas. The utter weakness of her final moments. That sound of crunching as her neck caved in.

There was nothing left of that woman that had been so gentle and shown him such affection. There was nothing left. But broken, lifeless … meat.

He stared at her for a long time.

Then her eyes opened.


	20. Chapter 2 Wax and Wane

_**Wax and Wane**_

"Hmm. You see it. Do you not?"

"Yes … I think so … Like a … a dark aura. Just there–"

"Mmhmm …"

Those two voices stopped speaking. For a time. Then the male one turned to the other.

"What is it, Miss Raelis?"

A pause.

Then …

"I do not know yet."

"Whatever it is," the male mused again, softly. "It is not of this plane. We should kill it now, while it is weak."

But, after a moment, the woman only shook her head.

And the man barked a laugh.

"You always did enjoy tempting fate …"

Eventually, Evelyn groaned. She started clawing her way back up out of sleep.

"I believe the dark raven wakes, Miss Raelis," the male spoke again, amusedly. "Perhaps dear Samuel's pleas of black sorcery were little more than whimsical fancy, after all …"

"Perhaps," the female answered evenly. "His Prime eyes do not see as we do. But that does not mean he sees nothing …"

The other chuckled softly to himself. The next few minutes passed in peace. Until the raven-haired woman finally opened her eyes at last.

She blinked slowly up out of sleep. It hung on her like a massive shroud, threatening to drag her just as quickly back down. She had to fight for every inch. And, even then, she barely succeeded in the end.

There were two people standing over her. A man and a woman. Both were thin. Willowy even. With fine, painted features. She could hardly make them out, everything was so hazy. But something made them stand out markedly to her bleary eyes even so.

Disconcertingly so.

The man leaned forward until his beautiful face swam into view overhead.

"Will you live, my raven?" he asked her in that rich, musical voice. It lilted like it found the very tongue it spoke amusing. A clever little smile painted its face just the same.

"Who are you?" she managed to force out through her rasping throat. Her voice sounded as rough as gravel so soon after his. And far weaker than it should have through clenched teeth.

She swallowed, thickly.

But that amused smile never left the other's face.

"I believe the more important question is – who are _you_, my raven?" he said, eyes glinting.

"Picking and feasting among the souls of the damned," that musical voice chided, "this carrion plane has clipped your wings."

And he cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.

"Or have you gorged so long that you have forgotten how to fly?"

She blinked at him, still trying to drag herself out of sleep. And not entirely sure just what new madness she had awoken too. It followed her wherever she seemed to go.

The woman pulled that man with his painted face back with a word, however.

"Enough, Haer'Dalis," she warned him gently. And he acceded with that same small grin.

"Of course, Miss Raelis."

He bowed his head.

The woman opened her mouth. But the door opened first. For the first time since waking, Evelyn realized she was lying in a bed inside a room.

Someone came inside. The woman looked back around toward Evelyn.

"Ah. Here is your companion," she said, and bent a little closer with a comforting, matronly smile and a hand on Evelyn's own. "Perhaps he will answer your questions."

For her part, Evelyn tried not to flinch.

"Come, Haer'Dalis," she beckoned the other then. They both moved toward the door, all but gliding as they did so.

The man still bore that amused smile. It seemed permanently etched into his winsome face.

The newcomer spared them both an odd look. Then they were gone. The door shut, and he moved in close beside her bed.

"My lady," the squire greeted, sounding a little relieved. For a dead man. "You are awake."

He knelt down at her side, taking her limp hand in his.

"I did not know what had happened to you," he told her earnestly. He seemed to struggle with himself just a bit. "I … I must apologize for not intervening more effectively on your behalf …"

She eyed him blearily from where she lay on the bed. She was still too tired to move much more than her head to look at him for the moment. Still, she managed to jerk her hand away from his. And, as she did, some of that started to make sense again.

He was alive, whatever good that did. He was wearing his suit of chain beneath that coat now. The hole was still there behind, she was sure, but the one inside him was not. She had seen to that in a blind moment of fear and desperation after pulling herself up over his dying body. She was sure she regretted that some now.

Her body was so weak she could barely move. His, however, seemed as if nothing had even happened to it at all.

He was looking at her intently. Studying her. She didn't think he knew just what she had done. Maybe he was dull-witted enough to not even remember that thing punching right through his guts. She doubted she was so lucky, though.

"Someone of the Five Flagons found us early the next morning, and told Samuel," he explained of a sudden. "I awoke within hours. But you, my lady, were in much more critical condition.

"They did not know what was wrong with you," he continued after a moment. Then he barked an uneasy laugh. "Samuel seemed convinced that the _actors_ from his playhouse downstairs might know better."

He stared off in thought. It was a change for him. He had not run his mouth nearly so much as he had every time before. And his whole presence seemed less sure. Less brash and insistent. She supposed it might have had something to do with how close he had come to death. An inch. Maybe less. She supposed. But she didn't really care.

"Why were you following me?" she demanded, as weak as her voice still was just then. She really didn't have to ask. He had certainly seemed foolish and stubborn enough. But he was taken aback by that tone for a moment.

"Sir … Sir Firecam told me to look after you," he managed. "You and your companion. I … I lost my other charge." He shook his head slowly. "I could not fail again."

He explained it as if it were the simplest thing in the world. But she just eyed him. Heatedly.

"I don't need you to look after me," she growled through clenched teeth at him.

He was clever enough not to mention that night. Maybe he actually realized it had been her saving his life instead of the other way around. He had hardly done more than nearly get himself killed.

Instead, he leaned in a little closer.

"What _were_ you doing there?"

There was no accusation. No challenge in his voice. It wasn't an interrogation. She almost wished that it was. Then, at least, it would be less annoying. No, she could see him trying to piece something together there in his thick skull.

"I was looking for someone," she told him at the last. Irritably. Her anger was helping bleed her frail body free of its overwhelming weakness far better than whatever the men who brought her there had hoped to do. She even managed to pull herself up a little.

"Who?" he demanded, brow furrowing. "Those two miscreants?"

She paused in her haphazard ascent to a sitting position long enough to glare at him again.

"No. They were Shadow Thieves," she explained as if he were a fool. "They could have _helped_ me find someone."

"Forgive me, my lady," he butted in again, still looking agitated and confused, "but you do not even have a coin purse on you." He shook his head. "They would not have helped you. Such men never truly do."

And those two were dead now too. She knew that was what he must be thinking then as well. Even for Shadow Thieves, she knew their behavior must have been more than a little erratic. That woman too. Whatever that thing was.

"It would have killed you," he said, as if reading her thoughts and attempting to justify himself both. She knew better, though.

"It would have if it meant to," she said simply. Her legs swung over one side of the bed. Then she sat there, hunched over with her back to him.

"Just leave me alone," she growled under her breath at him. Uselessly. "Go back to your knights."

She knew, even as she said it.

And, after a few moments, he stood and started away.

"They are not _my_ knights," she thought she heard him say. But she didn't really care to listen.

The door closed behind.

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

The Elven woman looked up as Evelyn came down the stairs. She had smiled in relief at the sight of the darker woman. But her face twisted down into a worried frown at that harsh tone.

"I-I just wanted to make s-sure you were alright," she stammered.

The girl had been in the basement of the inn, watching what looked like one of their plays. Someone was spouting stilted, poetic lines, and Evelyn glanced that way, briefly. It was that man – Haer'Dalis – standing gallantly atop a stage and gesticulating. That same sardonic smile was plastered across his face.

The Elven woman had been almost entranced by the performance, even sitting in the very back of the room as she was. They charged admission from what she could see, and she knew the girl didn't have any money.

That simple, yellow dress she had had since fleeing the circus had been cleaned, though. Evelyn's own stolen tunic was still stiff with sweat, blood, and dirt.

She came up to the Elf and all but towered over her even so by the way she seemed to cringe. Her whole demeanor invited the floor to open wide and swallow her up and away from the harsh realities of that world around her. She was so pure. So innocent. So _weak_, and diminutive.

It made Evelyn so suddenly sick. For a moment, all she wanted to do was hit the other woman. And hit her. And keep hitting her until every last breath of that softness was beaten out of her and bled into the ground.

But she didn't. She almost did. But she couldn't.

Her whole body had tensed as if she would. It unwound again, abruptly.

"Why did you follow me?" she demanded anew. It was a stupid question. She knew the girl had nowhere else to go.

Aerie looked at her with those big, hopeless blue eyes. She didn't really have an answer. Or maybe she was just about to start crying. She certainly looked as if she were. Eventually, Evelyn just growled in her throat.

She snatched the girl's hand in hers.

"Come on."

She started to drag the other woman away. But the squire knight was standing on the stairs.

"Where are you going?" he demanded as she stomped up past with the Elven girl in tow. She didn't even spare him a glance.

She was going to finish what she had started.

"You cannot trust them, my lady," he called up after even so. He had an infuriating habit of not knowing when to leave well enough alone.

"They will not help you."

But she knew that. After last night, she knew she could not risk it again. Not the Shadow Thieves. Not yet.

She didn't look back. But she knew he would follow. He had a piece of her inside him now, even if he didn't realize it. And she knew he was too weak to just let her go.

Better than he had tried.

* * *

"Wh-where are we going?" the other woman finally asked when they reached the Promenade. Her voice wavered a little anxiously. It was the first time she had been back since that night her uncle had been killed right in front of her. She didn't know how a Gnome had ended up being related to the girl by blood. But she didn't really care.

Evelyn looked at her.

"To find someone I lost."

It was all she said. She pushed their way back through the thick crowds into the giant market ahead.

A monolith of marble columns and arches rose up in the midst of that place. Hawkers shouted from booths everywhere, lining a winding path of bargains and bodies all the way to that mud-stained coliseum. She followed it all the way up and inside. Then she stopped.

She could see it. Even across the whole length of that place she could see it. Like a hole burnt in the earth. A black crater punched right through stone and rock like a god's vengeful fist. She could see it. The markets teemed around her, but nothing did in that black corner. Everything was charred and lifeless around it. The rubble and ruins still smoldered. Even after two weeks – they still steamed in the afternoon light.

"Wh-what is that?" the girl asked at her elbow. Horrified. Their flight from the circus had been too hurried, and in the dead of night besides. That blasted, smoldering ruin stood like a tainted, perverse monument to the black memories that came rushing back into her head now.

She looked at the girl.

A faint smile brushed her lips. Even she didn't know it was there.

"Where I lost someone."

She turned away without another word. And started down.


	21. Chapter 2 Memory

_**Memory**_

The cloaked man with the curved dagger stood, just around the corner of a building on the opposite side of the street. The evening shadows were deep enough to hide him, but the other knew where to look. As the honey-skinned man slipped out the door of that inn, he made quickly for the cloaked man.

He stroked the hilt of that dagger at his belt. Yoshimo pushed past him without a second glance. After a moment more, the cloaked man followed.

"What did you find?" he demanded once they were deep back inside the alley. The other rounded back on him swiftly.

"She was here," he said. "The Gnome who owns the tavern said they found her face down in the street this morning."

The cloaked man cocked his head at that.

"She's already dead?"

But the other shook his head.

"No. She recovered inside by noon. Curious," he smirked there in the dark. "A squire of the Radiant Heart paid her fare."

He eyed the honey-skinned man beneath his hood. The man continued.

"She left this afternoon with another woman. An Elf," he said. "The squire went with them."

"Where did they go?" he pressed.

"The Promenade," the other told him, and started to turn away. "That is why we must hurry. We might catch her there, but the trail will disappear all too quickly with the crowds."

He had already been moving. But the cloaked man blindsided him. He shoved an arm into the man's throat and forced him back up against the wall.

The other grunted, but that was all the sound he could manage. He settled for grappling the cloaked man's arm desperately instead.

He let the other dangle there helplessly for a few moments, staring into his dark, almond-shaped eyes.

Then he leaned in close.

"When we find her," he snarled up at the other, baring his teeth, "she is mine and mine alone. Do you understand?"

The other had his hands full just trying to suck air in through his gaping mouth and clenched throat. Still, he managed to shake his head quickly enough.

The cloaked man let him go. Abruptly. The only reason he didn't gut the fool right there was because he had proved useful. And he didn't dare lose the girl now. Not when she was finally so close.

He spun away while the man gasped there on his knees, gagging loudly. He didn't bother to wait. He made straight for the promenade.

* * *

She had dreaded this.

The day before – she had spent all of it looking for some Shadow Thieves in broad daylight. _Someone_ who could put her in contact with anyone powerful and well-connected enough to those back streets and gutters to help her find what she was looking for. She hadn't worried about the price. She was sure they would have found something they wanted from her. And nothing was too much now.

But it was for nothing. They had proved too dangerous. She had spent the rest of that day searching every stall, shop, and stand, looking for even a hint. Every step avoided that black crater. At first, it wasn't too difficult since she was hardly the only one. But as her search drew on and on, and she could still find nothing, her thoughts grew more and more black. Eventually, there was nowhere left to look.

But here.

That hole was all there was left. Her last hope. She could barely remember what had happened there. Vague memories of clawing her way away from it that night – broken, and beaten. She had lost everything in a single instant. And all she could see was his face.

_His_ face.

She took a step down into that smoking ruin and it hounded her every step. A thousand cruel agonies. A million perverse, black indignities. They misted up from every blasted, blackened rock and swirled behind her eyes.

Night had come on. It was difficult to see, and she squinted, moving slowly. Carefully. The Elven girl lagged behind at first, as frightened of that place as she without knowing quite why. But she followed in the darker woman's footsteps eventually. She seemed even less eager to stay behind. Evelyn paid her no mind.

Evelyn had had the girl show her where she found her that night. She had managed to kill a man. The other bolted after his friend planted a knife beneath her ribs and she sucked the life right out of him. Her steps were easy enough to trace from there. They had all been washed away in the storm, but the ones in her memory lingered like blazing beacons on the walls inside her skull. Almost all the way back to that crater. Something had blown her a couple hundred yards right out of it. And she had hoped so desperately to end her search back there.

Her eyes flashed everywhere in the dim night. But everything was black. Burnt. Scorched to ash. Every step made her heart heavier. Each one brought her that much closer to despair. But she pressed on, desperate for even a glimmer of silver hope.

"What are you l-looking for?" the girl ventured anxiously after a time of nothing but useless black. It was a wonder that she had not asked sometime earlier when the raven-haired woman had been tearing through the shops.

But Evelyn didn't care. She just ignored her, murmuring frantically to herself as her oversized boots crunched through more and more of that open grave.

It was here. It _had_ to be here.

Fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides. She leapt from mound to blasted, scorched mound, knuckles white. Her teeth were bared. And she looked almost feral.

Evelyn didn't even notice.

She couldn't have lost it. It _couldn't_ be gone. It just … just …

It just _couldn't_ be gone …!

But there was nothing. She threw her hands in blackness.

Nothing there but death. And ash. And everything she had ever cared about.

Tears blurred in her eyes. She twisted one way. Nothing. Then the other. Nothing again. She could barely see anymore. But she could feel. She could _feel_ … nothing. Nothing at all.

She slowed to a halt. Her legs buckled. And then she was on her knees in the smoldering soot.

Her face scrunched up miserably. She sobbed. Her fingers buried themselves in ash. They swallowed up great handfuls and she pounded them back into the scorched earth like some stupid, _weeping_ child. She didn't care. She just growled pitifully deep down in her throat.

"E-Evelyn …?"

The girl's voice nagged fearfully at her from behind. She couldn't hear it. She just shook her head slowly from side to side, slamming her fists into the ground.

It might have gone on forever. She might have stayed there, bawling into the ash. Manic. Desperate. Hollow. Broken, and lost. She would have, she thought. For a moment, it was all she wanted to do. Until she just wasted away like everything else around her.

But then one of those fists slammed into something hard.

Not a rock. Her hand sang out in pain. But it was not a rock.

That anguish died in her so fast it left her reeling. She froze, eyes wide, and silent. She didn't even bother to clear them.

She turned aside …

And started clawing at the black earth where she had felt it.

Something came out of the ground. She froze again when she felt it, bursting with hope. A startled laugh snapped out of her mouth.

Her hands were tearing anew in an instant.

Then she had it. She had found it again! She cradled it in her arms, as if afraid it would fade away or break in two. But no. She had found it. Again. And she was never going to let it get away again. Ever.

She laughed at the thought.

Evelyn turned back around, wiping the tears happily from her eyes. She was smiling. The first genuine smile in a long, _long_ time.

She looked to the girl. But Aerie was not looking back. Instead she was turned the other way. Her eyes were on someone else.

Two someone else's.

Evelyn froze instantly, sobering. That overwhelming relief fled from her so quickly again that she nearly collapsed. But she didn't.

She swiped at her eyes instead. And as she did, one of those two figures standing at the edge of the crater abruptly pushed the other. That one tumbled in with a startled grunt.

Evelyn pushed the girl right out of the way, tossing her aside. That man tumbled over and over, limbs flailing as he crashed down into the blasted hole. He finally came to a rest, face up against a pile of smoldering rock.

A moment more, and he just managed to look up with a wince.

"Who are you?" she hissed at him instantly. The man started to pull himself up. But then he froze on his elbows. And Aerie gasped.

The other had drawn a bow up above. An arrow was already fitted to the string.

The fallen man watched as the other trained that arrow down on him. Then he glanced over at the raven-haired woman and the girl down in the black dirt. He gave them a rueful grin.

"Someone who must apologize for finding you," he offered in some strange accent. "Only to let you die."

Evelyn glanced back up to the other with the bow. He just pulled back, and loosed.

Something slammed into him from behind.

The arrow struck into ash just beside the fallen man's head. His eyes twisted that way, staring in surprise. Then the other came tumbling over him with a third man wrapped around his waist.

The man with the bow hit the center of the crater first. His attacker lost hold of him and rolled down and away. By the time he reached the bottom, the bowman had already stumbled back up to his feet. He leapt on the other and started pounding with his fists.

The two rolled around on the ground, snarling and grunting. Limbs and ashes flew viciously everywhere. A knife flashed. And just as quickly flew away.

The man with the accent stumbled down toward them. He snatched up that dagger, shaking himself back to his senses.

One of the other two was on top then, pounding away at the other's face. He saw the man staggering ahead with the dagger, and cried out.

"NO!"

He flung out a hand. But the man beneath him launched a fist into the side of his head and took him down.

The man with the dagger moved over toward the two women. The one on the ground who had thrown the last punch climbed haphazardly back to his feet. Evelyn eyed them both warily, edging back and tensing all over.

The man with the dagger opened his mouth. The other stumbled toward them. But then the third man still on the ground surged up and slammed two fists into the one's back. That one pitched into the burnt earth.

Before the man with the knife could do anything more, that other man had slammed into him too. He flew back off his feet.

There was only one left standing then. He gave the man with the knife a swift blow to the head for good measure, then plucked that knife back with a heavy breath. When he came staggering unsteadily back around–

Evelyn was waiting for him.

He didn't even get a chance to raise that knife. She kicked it right out of his hand and smashed her own into his neck. He toppled back over with a shrill, choked gasp into the black dirt.

She stood over him. Neither of the other two were in any condition to threaten her then. And that one just lay there, gagging against the ground.

"My lady!" one of the other two managed to gasp. She stalked over to that one, scowling as he pulled himself back up to his feet.

"Are you injured?" the squire coughed, doubled over and trying to steadying himself against her with a hand. She brushed him aside without a word. Knowing that he would follow her had still made it no loss annoying.

The other man, who had picked up and then lost the dagger, stumbled towards them. He stepped over to the last man on the ground, looking down.

"You are fortunate," he said, glancing back over his shoulder at Evelyn then. It was that man with the foreign accent.

"He was going to kill you."

Evelyn found the dagger half-buried into soot. The foreign man slipped a long, slender blade free from somewhere under his cloak. And Anomen now had a mace in hand. The stranger stood his ground almost protectively. The squire ignored him for the moment, stalking over toward the bowman on the ground. He hauled him roughly back up to his feet.

"A would-be murderer," the bearded man growled at the dazed man in his grasp. He spared the foreigner a dubious look as well. "There is always room for them in the Amnish dungeons."

Evelyn glared at all three of them. She almost threw a scorching look at the girl as well. All that mattered was clutched desperately like a lifeline in one claw of her hands. And all three of those stupid fools had done nothing but get in her way.

She stalked up toward them. Anomen had reached up and snatched back the bowman's hood.

And she abruptly stopped dead in her tracks.

For a moment, all Evelyn could do was stare. Wide-eyed. Horrified.

She couldn't move.

Then those beaten-bleary, brown eyes lifted up to hers. And she gagged on her own tongue.

For a moment.

Eventually, she did manage to find her voice again.

"Kivan."


	22. Chapter 2 Cloak and Shadow

_**Cloak and Shadow**_

The squire glanced at Evelyn.

"You know this murderer, my lady?"

But she couldn't hear him. She just …

Stared.

For a few moments.

Minutes. Hours. An eternity … she lost track.

Then she closed the space between them.

"Get your hands off him," she snarled at the bearded man. He blinked at her in surprise. But she shoved him aside before he could even open his mouth.

"Kivan," she breathed, eyes pouring hastily all over the Elven ranger. His face was bruised and beaten. His hair had broken free and was a scattered mess. His throat – she had nearly crushed his throat–

But it was him. Even through the dozens of cuts and bruises and blood and hard, jagged bone –

It was him.

He was alive, and there, and – and …

"H-how?" she tried to speak, blinking up at him. But failed. He almost didn't seem real.

She hesitated. For a moment. She had lost so much. He had taken so much from her. It was almost unbelievable to think anything had come back. It was almost too much to hope.

But another moment … and she just didn't care anymore.

She slipped her arms around the dazed Elf, and squeezed tight.

It took a little longer, but he was hugging her back. She thought he was. At least, he was leaning heavily into her. He barely seemed to be keeping his feet. And she felt a sudden pit in her stomach at being the one to finally take him off his. But she just squeezed harder, one hand clawing a fistful of cloak at his back. The other held tight to that scorched, blackened scabbard she had torn free of the ash.

"How … how can you be _here_?" she barely more than breathed. She clutched at him as if she were dreaming again. Another moment and that nightmare would come crashing down. He would vanish, as suddenly as he had come. That was exactly what part of her expected him to do.

He didn't answer her. Instead, he tried to pry her away. She resisted. At first. But he won out in the end.

"_Evelyn_," he managed to look her in the eyes. Some of his strength and senses had come back. Just enough to make that tone and his intentions severe.

"What happened?" he demanded, still leaning on her a little with both hands clasped tight at her shoulders. "Are you alright?"

She just shook her head without a word. She couldn't help the tears springing into her eyes anew just then. Relief. A brief flash of happiness. Desperation. Or maybe just a little insanity finally catching up with her. She wasn't sure just where they came from then.

"Where are the others?" he pressed, hard eyes boring into her insistently. "The half-breeds. Your friend," he offered. And demanded anew.

"Where are they?"

But she didn't have an answer for him either. She could only just shrug her shoulders, and shake her head. Helplessly.

"I don't know."

Her eyes fell down to the black earth. There was a hint of madness there, she knew, as she barked a useless laugh at the thought. Numb. Useless. Helpless. It all just seemed so futile then. It was almost … funny.

"Evelyn."

The ranger had his gloved hands on both her arms. He kept trying to look her in the eye.

"_Evelyn_," he growled in his throat. "_Listen_ to me."

She finally looked back up at him. Her free hand swiped at her eyes. And, with an effort … she sobered.

"It isn't safe here," the Elf warned her gravely, casting an eye over her shoulders toward those others behind. She had all but forgotten about them. But he hadn't.

"It isn't safe for _you_ here," the ranger repeated insistently. "I'm not the only one trying to find you," he tried to explain. "You have to–"

"Coo! Well, look at this then."

The ranger twisted back around. They all did. Evelyn looked up after a moment, almost not hearing. But that voice was not from them. It cut the ranger off abruptly. And so did the dozen or so shadowy figures standing up there, surrounding the edge of that hole all around.

Kivan's hand was pushing her back a step without a word, putting himself between her and that voice that had broken in. As if it would have made a difference. They were behind them too. Maybe more.

Evelyn felt something begin to slide back shut. A shift. Like metal scraping closed inside her skull, as she peered around at those shadows.

"You'd be the one I be lookin' for, if I not be mistaken."

One of those figures was stepping down, leisurely, among the blasted rocks. His hood was drawn back, but his face was still hidden by the night. Dark eyes glinted like obsidian stones.

He cast one casually about.

"A bit of mess it be, aye?" he said, sounding almost apologetic. "Sorry to meet ye in such a stinkpit. Evelyn, I takes it?" He canted his head toward the raven-haired woman. "Of Candlekeep, aye?"

"And I was fairly certain he would be the one to kill you," someone murmured from behind. The foreign man. She just barely heard him.

The ranger visibly tensed. He had lost his weapons, though. Not that it seemed to matter to him much.

"You're mistaken," he said in her stead. His voice was dark, and deadly.

"That so?" the other continued on, circling the crater slowly. "And here I be thinkin' me sources of information infallible."

He laughed, easily. And shook his head.

There was no answer, though. At least they gave him none. He paused just long enough to face them down for that.

"Well, I suppose ye won't be wantin' any information on the young woman arrested by the Cowled Wizards then, aye?"

Evelyn cast him a dubious eye. She didn't have any weapon in hand either. But she didn't need one.

"What woman?" she finally shouted herself back up at the hoodless shadow. Gone was anything of the past few minutes from her voice. Gone was all that weakness she could hardly help in those moments.

That steady saunter never ceased.

"Now what was that name?"

He brought a finger to his chin, bowing it thoughtfully. For a moment. Then he snapped it against another.

"Imoen!" he exclaimed at her. "Why that be it. Aye …"

Evelyn pushed past the Elven ranger in an instant.

"Where is she?"

"Aha!" The man stabbed a finger at her. If he had noticed the sudden, deadly shift in her tone, he gave no sign. "So I _do _be havin' you correctly. Coo!" he pushed out a heavy breath, hands on hips. "An' here I thought I be talking to a complete stranger. Wiping me brow, I am. Heh."

"Where is she?" the raven-haired woman demanded once more, baring her teeth. Somehow, the other seemed not to realize just how close he was to having something ripped right out of him.

"Imoen, aye," he continued. "That be her name. Young lass made the misfortune of castin' a spell or two in a city that frowns on such business. Bad timin' it was. You be thinkin' ye wants to find her, then?"

He had already made his way halfway around the rim of that scorched hole. His men stood still and ready up above.

"_Yes_," she spat. Any closer and it would have been her hands on his throat.

"Coo!" the man exclaimed again. Then he stopped, and turned on them.

"I knows very little myself, me lady," he said. "I can, however, link ye up with a group that knows. Or can be findin' out." He gave them an amicable smile.

"But this be a bit inhospitable the place for such business. I be having a place that would suit far better. It be just a short walk from here."

The Elf beside her eyed the men lined up all around. So did Anomen standing off to one side, though he kept his dark, threatening looks far less guarded. The Elven girl was as anxious, oblivious, and cowed as ever. That foreign man only seemed amused by it all.

"And if we don't go with you," Kivan suddenly spoke up in her stead. His leather gloves creaked around his fists at her side. "What then?"

The hoodless man only shook his head, still grinning.

"Ye misunderstand, me lord," he replied good-naturedly. "The invitation be for the lady alone. And it would be most … _unfortunate_," he decided with a thoughtful roll of his eyes, "if she were to refuse."

He extended a generous hand.

"Yer all most welcome to come along, however."

"Kivan."

Evelyn lowered her voice. Just enough so that only the ranger could hear.

"Take the girl and go," she told him, gesturing with her head toward Aerie. The Elven woman could not keep her big blue eyes from darting all about in dismay.

"I'll find you again," she assured him simply.

"Do you really think they'll just let us go?" he growled right back. He never took his eyes from those figures above.

"No," the bearded squire broke in on them from behind. She spared him only a brief, irritated glance.

"Shadow Thieves," he muttered on to himself, shaking his head slowly. "I walked right into a damned trap …"

"I wasn't talking to you, Human," the ranger snapped at him.

For a moment, the other man forgot the lurking Thieves and glared, wide-eyed at the Elf.

"How _dare_ you speak to me in such a manner," Anomen snarled back. "_Assassin_."

The squire took a threatening step forward.

"If _she_ had not spared your life, I would–"

"_Shut up_."

She glared at the bearded man. Then she pushed ahead past them both.

"Alright," she called up to that man atop the lip of the crater. "I'll go with you," she said.

And he just smiled right back in turn.

"Coo. Come with me then."

* * *

The Shadow Thieves broke their circle. All of a sudden, one of their number came up out of that blackened little chip in the gallant face of Faerûn. The two women and the knight trailed behind. And so did two others.

Most of the thieves dissipated into shadow. It wasn't too hard for him to see where they went. Only one stayed close, accompanying the man who had spoken with the five. That one gestured invitingly for them to move along. They did not look like prisoners from afar, but it was easy to see different in their faces. And in how those shadows still lingered not too far off.

There was something … peculiar … about the Elven girl. Intriguing. She was more than she seemed, he was sure. But dismissible. The paladin was insignificant as well. The other two, he had not seen before. But there was nothing especially important about them. Neither were from that place called Amn from what he could tell. But neither were they from another plane.

The Tiefling was surely not. His eyes pierced that thick night as if it were broadest day, even from where he hid atop a perch above one of the Promenade's many merchant shops. He crouched there, studying those five from afar. But, in truth, he really only cared about the one. That dark-haired woman in their midst.

That raven was darker than all the rest around her. She donned a cloak of ephemeral shadow that none else could see. It almost obscured her in blackness, even from his piercing eyes. But he knew the mark of the Lower Planes. Sigil was the City of Doors after all, and he the bastardized seed of those lower realms. He had known demons all his life.

Raelis' suspicions were very well founded. It was infrequent enough to find beings of the Lower Planes on the Prime Material. That one had just happened upon their little troupe in the inn certainly warranted her caution in sending him to spy after it.

"But you have found a cage for yourself, my raven," he remarked softly, gazing from his perch. "Haven't you?"

The thieves led them away. He wondered if the simple Berks had the strength or skill necessary to keep a denizen of the Planes at bay for long. It didn't really matter much, though. As long as they kept her preoccupied for just a little while. The others would have everything prepared by the time he returned.

He lingered until he was sure that they had left. The raven seemed to have put up little enough of a struggle. He doubted that even Shadow Thieves could have stopped it if it did. And its companions certainly seemed a strange enough choice. Tieflings did not make a particular habit of associating closely with Primes and at least one of them it had shown some general affection towards. Paladins too. He wondered why the holy warrior could not sense her infernal heritage as he had. The bearded Human had certainly seemed put off by his own presence back at the inn.

He paid it all little more mind, though. Once that place was empty once more, Haer'Dalis leapt down nimbly from his perch, support to support, until he reached the ground. And when he came to the edge of that still smoldering, blasted hole, he crouched down over it.

"Curious."

He dug a hand down into the scorched dirt and rock, sifting through. He was suspicious of why the raven had come there. He had heard the rumors of some attacks on the Promenade – magical in nature. He was sure the poor Berks had been mistaken – that some infernal sorcery was at play. Perhaps the raven had clawed her way up out of the Lower Planes there, or opened another portal.

But he brought the burnt gravel up to his face and could smell nothing of the Abyss. Or the Hells. Not even a whiff of that peculiar sulfur. Sorcery had been at work there. Powerful sorcery.

But not demons.

He clapped his hands together, brushing them off. And stood. He was done there. It was time to fly back to his troupe, and flee while they still could. A pity. Just when he had been starting to like the Prime Material.

He sighed. And flew away.


	23. Chapter 2 Black Alley

_**Black Alley**_

Something was wrong.

He had lived too long in Sigil. Survived too many brushes with demons, devils, devas, the Blood War, and sanctimonious vendettas. He knew the scent of blood and magic. He could feel his own inexorable doom like a vibration in the air long before it came. That place would come to ruin. That whole plane would be swallowed up in ashes and decay.

What he felt now, though, had already come and gone.

Haer'Dalis kept to the deepest shadows the last few city blocks back to the Five Flagons Inn. It hide him from any mortal eyes. But those he truly wished to avoid just then would not be mortal. And his swift feet picked up their pace as he neared until he was all but flying back to perch. When he arrived, there was no dashing swoop for the front door – a gallant return to his friends and companions as they fled with their enemies just on their heels. No. Instead, he alighted next to a dim window, and slipped his way quietly inside.

The cellar was dark when he reached the top of the stairs leading down. The sturdy little Gnome Samuel Thunderburp kept all his good wines down there. He had trusted the revenue and attraction that their actor troupe brought to his humble inn enough to let them loft with his stock for some time.

The rest of the Five Flagons was fast asleep by that hour, only a few scattered where they lay in the common room. The Tiefling expected his friends to be waiting impatiently for him with open arms down below, ready to depart. All he saw and heard now, however, was dim light and silence.

When he reached the bottom, he glanced around the corner. Just a glance. He didn't see anyone at first. So he looked again. And this time …

This time … he noticed the bodies.

Pulling back out of sight, he took a soft breath. Two blades appeared in either hand – silent steel. And he drew in deep once more.

Then he leapt out into the room.

His fleet feet carried him across the cellar, gliding low toward the raised platform of the stage at the back. His eyes darted wildly about, eager for the spells and arrows. Eager for the trap to be sprung. For the doom to take him too.

None came, though. He made it all the way to the stage. Alive.

The room was still quiet. His swift footfalls bounced like the beat of a death march against the walls. Soft. Insistent. Inevitable.

He leapt up atop that platform without losing a step, and knelt. Low.

The first body he turned over with a gentle hand, still clutching both blades in the other. It was hard to identify the woman who lay there with half her face torn off and seared shut. But he knew.

"Lunisia," he breathed.

But no one answered him.

There was no sudden ambush. No swift hand of justice and indignant fury to claw shut the jaws of a trap. He wished for one. Pined for it in those moments as his boots carried him amongst the gallant dead. There was nothing, however. Nothing but death, and silence.

Kirinaldo, his broad girth ripped open and loosed on the floor. Herod – chest blasted wide like a scorched melon. Talisien. Moreau. He passed from body to bloody body. He knew the work of demon hounds when he saw it. _Smelled_ the infernal taint of magic in the air. Fell assassins. The City of Doors had no lack for them.

He kept looking, though. It was not grief or sorrow that drew him on, but anger. Anger at his slowness. Irritation at being denied a part in that bloody end. They lined for the stage, but had been butchered in the dark where none could see. The play had ended without him. Passed him by like a chorus.

He had been too late.

Their killers would have forgotten him. They would now think the troupe dead and punishment served. They must have. Or there would have been some scrap of death left for him when he returned, unawares. It was the greatest of tragic ironies. To be insignificant enough to be forgotten. Overlooked.

He checked each body until he found Raelis Shai. The leader of their troupe. She they would have killed last. Dramatically, of course. And he was not disappointed. A dagger was still buried in her guts.

The Tiefling slid down to his knees beside the supine woman with her crimson hair flaring. She still grasped the knife thrust inside her like a lover's last torment. That scene was still painted in the pale, drawn flesh of her beautiful face. He could see it so easily. Magnificently. They had let her die slowly. So she could have the company of those innocent men and women in her last moments. Those righteous corpses.

He brushed a hand to her cheek, and sighed. The blades clattered to the ground. There was no one coming back for him. No one at all.

That show was finally over. And he had had no part in the finale.

He sighed again.

And felt a hand touched his.

"Haer'Dalis?"

His eyes blinked back open. The woman's hand was on his. Bloody, and magnificent.

She swallowed thickly, looking up at him through bleary eyes.

"Oh, my dark Haer'Dalis," the woman squeezed those eyes shut again for a moment in dramatic relief. "I had hoped I might see your beautiful face before they took me too."

The Tiefling brought that limp, bloody hand up to his mouth and kissed it.

"I am here, Miss Raelis," he breathed, gently. "Tell me who it was who did this."

Her lips twisted into a smile at him, even as she died.

"You know who it was, my precious sparrow," she said. "The Cambion who hunts us. But no longer," she shook her head ever so slightly, blinking dully toward the other corpses scattered about her. "Duke Rowan Darkwood - has finally had his revenge …"

The last lilted upwards in a rasp as her frail chest began to give out on her. It sounded strangled.

"Yes, Miss Raelis."

He squeezed that hand into his cheek. And she brushed it with her fingertips.

"There is," she coughed, still gagging on a little of her own blood. "There is something you must know, Haer'Dalis."

Her voice was torn, throaty, and insistent. Somehow, she kept speaking.

"'Twas no dark figure in an alley who gave me the play, dear Haer'Dalis," she spoke, ruefully. "'Twas I." And coughed. "_I_ wrote the 'Comedy of Terrors'."

She looked to him for indignation. For spite, betrayal, or vengeance. She got none of them. He just pressed her fingers anew into his lips.

"I know, Miss Raelis."

And then she was gone.

He closed his eyes as her hand went limp. He kissed it again, and again. He did not know for how long. But he was alone. Only the dead for company on that miserable plane.

Eventually, he let them fall away. And he stood.

He stared down at the dead woman for a little longer, feeling her death coarse through his veins. It had been no accident. The timing was too precise.

He flashed his teeth.

"Oh, my raven, my raven," he uttered. "You are a clever one."

Somehow … that dark-haired demon had sent a message without him noticing. There were a dozen different ways. Hundreds of foolish Berks who could have easily been in league. Somehow … she had done it.

He snatched up both those blades. And smiled at them.

The story wasn't finished quite yet.

* * *

Evelyn fingered the beaten sheath in her hands as they plunged down yet another dark street, those ones a step displaced from the quiet bustle of the main boulevards that led them deeper into the heart of the city of Athkatla. They were all mud-brick and rusty slate, earthen hues and sweltering heat. So far from Baldur's Gate – Candlekeep. So far from anything worth caring about.

The steel within that leather was slightly warm to the touch. She could feel it through her fingertips like a slow, throbbing pulse. Life, cradled in her hands. It wasn't hers. She could never use it. But she had made a promise to someone once. Long ago.

She was going to find a way to keep it.

Kivan gave her a sidelong glance, but didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

They followed that man down another alley. And then he stopped, rounding back on them.

Evelyn jumped on him before he could even open his mouth. Her forearm was buried in the back of his neck, his face squashed up against the side of a dirty, sandstone wall. All he managed was a grunt.

The ranger twisted away, bow springing into hand and arrow ready. He forced the other man who had come with them back a few steps, then darted from one unseen target to another, ready to loose. Wherever they were, they held back, if only for a moment.

"My lady!" the squire shouted at her, completely taken by surprise. He only had enough time to push his body in front of the Elven girl, eyes darting blindly to the shadows about. Aerie looked terrified. That stranger only slipped a blade free, backing into the wall.

Something hissed past her ear. A steel handed bolt stuck in the brick ahead. A warning shot. Evelyn wrenched the man in her grip back around so that he was between her and those unseen crossbows.

"If you think they can kill me before I kill you," she hissed in his ear, pressing steel to flesh, "you're wrong." The knife in her hand was his own.

"You're makin' a mistake, me friend," he managed back at her, throat bobbing about steel. She just kicked his feet forward, all but toppling him over.

"Where is she?"

The man struggled in her grasp. His feet scrabbled against the dirt and stone.

"Where is she?" Evelyn shook him and snarled again.

"I don't know," he grunted back, sounding a little less the jovial host now. But she just nicked his throat with that blade.

"I don't believe you."

And he bounced a little squeamishly of a sudden beneath it.

"I don't know meself, my lady," he gasped. "I swear it on me life!" He was trying to twist his dark eyes back up and around to meet her own, pleadingly. "But I know someone who does," he added quickly. "I'm only here to," he flinched with frantically bared teeth at the knife, "negotiate!"

It all came out in a rush. Then he stayed there, beseeching eyes trying in vain to twist back around in his head towards her. She just stared him down, dark and impassive.

It was deathly quiet for a few moments.

"I would listen to him," someone broke the silence then. Evelyn glanced up in surprise. It was that foreign man. "His employers would not have been so foolish to entrust an underling with important information," he said. "Especially … _profitable_ … information."

She stared at that honey-skinned man, the other twisting futilely in her grip. "And just who are _you_?" she demanded of him. It was the ranger who answered, though.

"He was looking for you," Kivan growled back at them. "I think he means to kill you. He called himself Yoshimo."

Evelyn scowled at that man. The name was not familiar. But the face …

She narrowed her eyes at him, squinting. Memory pushed through, insistent. She could just make it out … but …

"_You_," she breathed. Her eyes flashed abruptly wide once more.

"You were with Imoen," she uttered at him, disbelieving. "In that dungeon …"

Yoshimo blinked at her. Relief flared briefly across his smoothed features. Then an easy grin.

"Ah … yes."

She kept frowning darkly even so. The squire was grinding his teeth between them, looking from one to the other.

"What the devil is going on here?" he demanded, indignant. The girl was cowering quietly behind, big blue eyes darting every which way at once.

But Evelyn ignored him. She looked down to the man in her grasp instead.

"How do I know you won't just kill us if I let you go?" she growled at him. He clutched a hand feebly at the blade on his throat.

"I came to facilitate a deal with ye," he managed, gasping. "For coin!"

"And why shouldn't they just kill us," the ranger grunted, "and _take_ our coin?"

Again, the man gasped, struggling. His face was beet red.

"We knows ye got none! None worth killin' you over, anyhow–"

Evelyn shut him up with the knife. She looked to the ranger. Then that other – Yoshimo. Eventually, she just bared her teeth down at the man in her grip.

She pulled the knife down and shoved him roughly away. A moment later and she was standing alone. She half-expected to feel a dozen razored bits of steel plunge into her. She was almost surprised when they did not.

The man caught his balance against the bricks of the wall, hand at his bruised throat. It took him a few seconds, but eventually, he managed to regain that easy composure.

"Why did you bring me here," Evelyn growled after him, "if you don't even know where Imoen is?"

She had had enough of those games. Running around the city for days, trying to get answers. Already Shadow Thieves had attacked her. Now this greasy Amnish cutpurse was trying to blackmail and take her prisoner. If it wasn't for Imoen, she would have already torn him apart by now.

That man straightened. He even managed to flash them another, slightly guarded grin.

"I tell ye straight that I know a powerful group that can be helpin' ye," he assured her slowly. "They can be findin' the wizard and the young woman both, they can."

She stared at him, uncomprehending. For a moment. But, again, memory wasn't so far behind.

"Wizard …"

The words barely made it past her lips.

"Aye," he wagged a finger at her, still keeping some distance. "But they can do far better than the tellin', my friend." He glanced from one to the other, giving a slight wink. "They can also affect the rescue of your lass, or the capture of the mage, to boot."

Kivan still had an arrow ready at the string, eased but fixed on that other man who had accompanied them. He had said nothing, just stood there, calm and impassive.

"And just who are these friends of yours," he growled aside without lowering his guard, "that are so willing to help her?"

Her eyes flashed from the ranger to the man. But that one only shook his head, ruefully.

"That, I cannot tell ye," he lamented. "Rest ye fine that they be willin' to help," and nodded his head graciously, as if that were more than enough, "and havin' enough power to challenge the Cowled Wizards. That's all ye be needin' to know."

Kivan lowered his bow a little, scowling. But he kept that arrow knocked and loose. He gave the raven-haired woman a hard, meaningful look.

"It is not hard to guess," the honey-skinned man abruptly spoke up from behind. "This has the stench of the Shadow Thieves all over it."

Evelyn glanced his way, fixing him with a dubious eye. The man in front of her was even harsher.

"'Ey!" he stabbed a warning finger that way of a sudden. "Ain't no one speakin' a breath of that nonsense here," he protested, a little indignant. "There be no reason to be makin' such _grand_ assumptions!"

Yoshimo still had a blade in hand, hanging down at his side. The man was glaring at him, but the other only arched a dark eyebrow back at him. Evelyn looked from one to the other, hardly knowing which she could trust less. Either. It almost didn't matter.

"And just how much coin will this cost her?" the ranger grated on. If she didn't break the man in too, she was sure Kivan soon would.

"You should know that this requires me friends to cross the Cowled Wizards," he rounded back with an agreeable grin again. "Not somethin' ye would be doing on your own. Tsk."

He shook his head.

"It may seem costly," he continued with a heavy sigh, "but I be tellin' ye, without my organization there be nothing ye could do.

"A fair price, if ye think about it. It be twenty thousand coins for their help."

Evelyn rounded back on him with a snap of her head, mouth dropping open despite herself. She stared at him for a moment, incredulous. Kivan just barked a harsh laugh to one side.

"Twenty thousand coins?" he scoffed, grunting. The man only nodded.

"Gold," he said. "Sovereigns. With the Amnish stamp chiseled in, me friends.

The ranger shook his head. Yoshimo did too behind and beyond, muttering something about Shadow Thieves with a sardonic laugh.

"You said a moment ago that you knew she didn't have any coin," the ranger snapped at the man, lips curling back. "But now you think she can give you that much?"

"'Tis a lot, aye," he acceded with a bow of his head, "but ye ask me friends to go against the wishes of th' Cowled Wizards. I told ye it not be a thing to be done lightly."

The ranger's face twisted, bitter and disbelieving. For a moment, he looked as if he might finish the job she had started earlier, hands tense on his bow. For a moment, Evelyn thought she might too.

"He's right," she said darkly instead, clutching her stolen dagger. "What makes you think I could possibly have that much coin?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. But the threat was no less there.

He smiled back at her.

"I didn't say me friends expected ye to have it," he clarified for her, grinning easy. "But you are a commodity," he said then. "You will find a way to … acquire it."

Evelyn fixed a dark glare at him. But it was the ranger who abruptly spoke.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded angrily. His bow twisted around with him toward the man, the other wholly forgotten. "A … _commodity_?"

It was so swift and so sudden. If that other thief had merely been waiting for the Elf's guard to let down, he had his chance.

But the first threw up placating hands quickly.

"I meant no offense by it, me friend," he offered with an apologetic look cast her way. "I meant only that me employers have faith in your abilities to fund this little … enterprise."

That hardly seemed to deter the Elf, though. He glared hard at the Amnian, gloved fingers seeming to itch. Evelyn glared at the man too. For once, though, that night, the ranger outdid even her.

Eventually, the man just flashed them that easy grin once more.

"Take all the time ye need to think over the offer," he told them. "When ye have the coin, you will see me again. Don't you be worryin' 'bout that."

He extended a hand.

"For now, Arledian will be showin' ye back. Rest easy," he said, "and think about what I said."

And bowed his head.

"Until we meet again, me friends."


	24. Chapter 2 Trips and Traps

_**Trips and Traps**_

"What are you going to do?"

Evelyn shook her head, ignoring Kivan's chiding tone. She kept walking, following that man – Arledian. The ranger gave her another sidelong glance.

"What about _them_?" He didn't have to say who he meant.

She shook her head again.

"I'll get rid of them," she said simply. The squire and the Elven girl trotted along unknowingly behind. "Yoshimo?"

"He's a bounty hunter."

"Can we lose him?"

"I doubt it." He spared her another glance. "He managed to find you as easily as I did. He knows the terrain better."

"Kill him then?" she mused, flatly.

The ranger gave her an odd look. Then he nodded.

The man ahead of them slowed to a stop and turned on them. Evelyn didn't have to look hard to know that they weren't back in the Promenade. Instead, she recognized that miserable little hole of a tavern all too well. And apparently the squire knight did too, by the way he suddenly tensed even more.

"I am sure you can find accommodations here for the rest of the evening," the man told them, deadpan and indifferent. "A word of advice," he continued. "A wealthy aristocrat recently made inquiries into acquiring services in the order of removing an infestation from his lands outside the city. We arranged a meeting with this one Lord Firkraag," he gestured with a hand, "to take place here on the morrow."

He gave Evelyn a meaningful look.

"If one were to meet with this lord in our stead tomorrow morning and agree to enter his service, the resulting payment would undoubtedly cover the full cost of any expensive adventures they wished to undertake in the near future."

And he kept staring at her for several long moments after.

Finally, he tipped his head.

"Good business."

And strode away into the night.

The ranger stared after the man for some time. Then he looked at her. But the squire didn't give him a chance to speak.

"My lady," he stalked a few steps forward, until he was standing over her. "Just what in the .. in the _Hells_ is going on?"

His face was red and livid beneath that beard, whatever frail composure he had kept for so long around her and the thieves now broken. It wasn't her problem, though. And he should have never been there in the first place.

"Take her and go," Evelyn didn't even look at the Elven girl. Aerie's big blue only eyes flashed wide.

"Take care of her," she added after a moment, hesitating.

Then it was gone.

She started to turn away. But that man caught her arm.

"Whatever this madness is you have involved yourself in, my lady," he pressed indignantly, "I _deserve_ an explanation …"

But she barely more than spared him a glance before twisting her arm free and turning away again. She vanished inside the Copper Coronet.

The ranger stood there for a moment more, eying each of those three meaningfully. Then he followed after.

* * *

"What are you doing here, Kivan?"

The seedy tavern was as loud and raucous as she remembered. She pushed her way through the crowded bulk of stinking bodies as she had before. This time they were slightly less challenging, and few people bothered to let her catch them staring. When she reached a quieter corner by the stairs leading up to the rooms above, she rounded on the Elf.

He blinked at her for a moment. When they had been surrounded and threatened, it had hardly been the time to question her luck, no matter how good. Now, though, she was not so worried over a bolt in the neck.

He seemed to think them no more safe, though. He snatched her by the arm, pulling her even deeper into that corner.

"I came to find _you_," he told her. That look he gave her was severe, but he quickly turned it back on the common room about.

She only shook her head back at him.

"Why?"

Memory of the last time they had been together was never far away. No matter what else she might have lost, she could not forget that. Sarevok's death. Being buried alive beneath Baldur's Gate. The Elven ranger had left soon after he had taken his revenge at last. The half-Ogre who had murdered his wife was dead. She should have never seen him again. He should have been gone to Arvandor long ago. Like he said. Like they had promised.

Kivan kept an eye to the doors, looking for that honey-skinned man she was sure. He hadn't seemed as if he meant to kill her. He hadn't even bothered to try. Though, she knew, she had certainly met enough who hadn't at first.

The Elf's hand strayed to the curved dagger at his belt.

"I looked for you at Baldur's Gate after returning home to Shilmista," he said then, still looking away toward. "Then Candlekeep. No one had seen you since last winter. But I found your trail."

She just shook her head.

"How?

It must have been months after they were taken. Any sign of them would have been long gone by then. They had been long since forgotten by then.

"Shevarash guided me," he told her, glancing briefly back her way. "And a diviner I managed to find outside Beregost," he added after a moment. "They told me to look here. So I did."

She shook her head, though. As lost and alone as she had felt escaping that dungeon only to lose everyone and everything left when she did – he should not have been there. He was done with her. They had long since taken their revenge and been done with it. There was nothing left.

"I knew you were in trouble, Evelyn," he said then as if reading her unspoken thoughts. And his voice fell low. Almost bitter. "I could not just abandon you to it," it growled back at her. "Not after everything we've been through."

It sounded hollow. Even in her ears. They _had _been through a lot together. Too much, she knew. And she knew him well enough in that time to know he could not have meant it. _Did_ not mean it. There were much more important things for him to do.

"What about Deheriana?" she asked softly. At the sound of his dead wife's name, his eyes squeezed shut. So did his hand around that dagger.

It was some time before he answered her.

"Her spirit," he began. Then his eyes flashed back open. He breathed hard. "Can wait."

He did not look back at her. It was a few minutes more before he even opened his mouth again.

"What now?" he asked once more. "You told that man you were looking for the girl. I wouldn't think that one would ever abandon you."

He looked at her. His hand had loosened from the dagger. But he did not let it go.

Evelyn shook her head. Now it was her turn to look away.

"She didn't," she said. Even the dull roar of the common room wasn't loud enough to drown out those black words then.

"I abandoned _her_."

The ranger eyed her for a moment.

"The half-breeds? The two from Rasheman?" he pressed. But Evelyn only shook her head again.

"I don't know."

Another minute of silence.

At least between _them_.

"What are you going to do?" he asked one last time, glancing toward the crowded, bustling room. He didn't care to be there any more than she did.

She looked with him, staring hard ahead even so. There had never really been any question at all.

"I'm going to find her."

* * *

The man stirred the fire with a stick. And a smile broke across his face.

"Just like old times, eh?"

He glanced up at the half-Elven woman.

The night was warm, stars clear and bright in the sk. Cyprus and elm rustled and creaked in the heavy breeze, muggy and full. Crickets chirped by the thousands everywhere in the dark.

Jaheira returned the look, if only for a moment. She just barely managed a smile.

Rylock continued to tend the fire. Renfield, Meronia, and the others dozed close by. Jaheira contented herself with neither, only staring deep into the low flames.

The other left her in peace with her thoughts for a time. But not as long as she would have liked.

"If you had wanted first watch, I could have given it to you, Jaheira."

She looked up at him. It was only their first night out from Athkatla. But they set a good pace off the main roads and Trademeet was not far. They might even be done with that task within a week. And she fully intended to be.

"You can rest, if you like," she told him after a moment.

The man stared at her. Then he broke into another rueful grin.

"I was more concerned about _you_, my dear," he said, turning his attentions back to the fire. It was a simple sentiment, passed between old friends. But she had never been one to be doted on before. He knew that.

"Do not worry over me, Rylock," she told him, a little vexed. It came out as an impatient growl in her throat. "Just let us finish this business quickly, and be back to Athkatla and Galvarey."

The other sighed, good-naturedly. He wore exaggerated patience like it was his duty.

"I'm sure you are anxious to find Gorion's foster daughter," he responded simply, stirring the flames. "I do sincerely hope you intend to keep your mind on the task at hand, though."

She might have seemed distracted. She certainly had every right to be. But she knew how to focus when the situation demanded it. He knew that. He knew it well.

She opened her mouth to cast some chiding comment his way about it. But stopped. Instead, her dark eyes flashed back to his. And she frowned.

"How did you know that?" she demanded, cocking her head to one side. The man glanced back up at her.

"Know what, Jaheira?"

She fixed him with a hard eye.

"That Evelyn was his foster daughter."

The man looked at her for a moment, frowning curiously in turn. He seemed not to understand the question at first. But then he smiled, amused at that suspicion.

"Did you think we did not know?" he said, reaching for his canteen and taking a drink. "The old sage could not keep it from us. There was too much controversy surrounding his … retirement," he chose, for lack of a better word.

The man offered her the water. But she brushed it aside with a hand.

She was still frowning doubtfully at him. Her old friend had not told anyone why he had left the Harpers after his last mission. It had been kept secret, even from her. The only reason she had known anything about it at all was because she personally went to see Gorion and demand to know why he had left. That his new daughter was not his own was something only a handful of people had actually known. _She_ had always thought so, anyways.

The other took another mouthful of the canteen before putting it back down.

"Tell me, Jaheira," he started anew, leaning forward. He gave her another sporting grin. "Did you actually know who her birthparents were?"

She never stopped eying him. Uncertainly. He didn't seem to let it bother him, though.

"No," she admitted, reluctantly. "Though I had my suspicions," she slowly continued on. "I knew of his affair with a woman in Tethyr."

"Yes," the other agreed. "He never quite got over that little expedition, did he?"

The man laughed, giving her a wink. And Jaheira could not help herself. She barked a laugh as well at the memory, blinking away. That had been a misadventure of bumbling youth and inexperience if ever there was one. It was almost difficult to remember that man she knew as _ever_ having been young.

"But what of her father?" he said then. "Surely you didn't think it Gorion."

She just shook her head. She had been satisfied enough that he had taken her as his own. At the time.

"I only knew because he told me he was not. I would have thought so otherwise," she told him.

"But what about her real father?" the man pressed with a curious smile. "Has he never come back to claim her? Is he even still alive?"

The half-Elven woman only shrugged.

"No. As far as I know, they both died before Gorion ever took her."

Rylock eased back with a soft laugh. He seemed more taken by memory and his own thoughts than that accusation anymore. It was something she noticed quite often with men his age, pining for reverie. And he had only a handful less years on Gorion himself.

But now she leaned forward, crooking a hand under her chin.

"Why are you so curious about this girl, Rylock?" she asked.

And shook her head slowly.

"What were you even doing in Amn?" she pressed. "Since when did they start sending you on such trivial field assignments again?"

It broke him out of his daydreaming. He flashed a smile, looking back at her.

"Now don't start that," he thrust a finger at her. "I have enough trouble convincing the others that I can still travel well enough as these younger ones. Let alone walk.

"And you seem to care for this girl a great deal, Jaheira," he added after a moment. "Is it too much for an old friend to want to see a pretty young woman taken with happier thoughts than death and service for even a few minutes?"

She smiled a little lopsidedly back at him, giving him her own sporting look.

"I am a little older than you, _old_ friend," she teased. And he laughed.

"Yes, but you're Elven heritage lets you hide it far better than I," he shot right back. "None of the others realize just how decrepit and addled you truly are beneath those pointed ears."

She narrowed her eyes at him, mockingly. And he just took another happy swipe at his canteen.

"Besides," he laughed again. "The child that turned such a stout old devoted warrior from the cause?"

He shook his head, grinning.

"I can't wait to meet her."

And Jaheira just smiled right back.


	25. Chapter 2 Fool's Gold

_**Fool's Gold**_

Anomen held out the soft bundle. And cleared his throat.

"I acquired what I could," he said, scratching at the flesh inside his throat again with a heavy breath. "I am sorry it is not more presentable, my lady." But at least it was a good sight better than the rags she had been traipsing about in for the past few days.

"Th-thank you."

A slim hand reached out from behind the screen and snatched the clothes from him. He turned away, even though the screen hid everything from him. He folded his arms across his chest.

"Tell me, my lady," he said as that Elven woman bathed and dressed. The sound of sloshing water drifted up from the other side. "What do you know of your companion? That dark-haired woman. Evelyn."

It was harmless enough. She didn't suspect or seem to care overly much as to any ulterior motive of his. Not that she had much reason too. Her affiliations were clearly tenuous, and fleeting at best.

"I … Nothing."

It was about all that he could get from her. Even after hours alone in her company and almost blatant attempts to extract the information. It might have been maddening, but long hours in training had taught him some patience at least.

The girl hardly knew anything. She had found the other woman dying in the gutter one night, she told him, stammering all the way as if afraid of some sudden, punitive blow. She had nursed that woman back to health, then been swept up with her when calamity struck the circus in the Promenade. Something about a magical attraction gone awry. The Cowled Wizards were investigating. But he had heard rumors about a great many civilian casualties. That whole part of the Promenade had been closed off, even if little could keep the Council of Five or Athkatla itself from shutting, or even slowing, down the Promenade completely.

It was not long after that when he had found them in the Copper Coronet. Trouble and tragedy seemed to have followed the woman ever since. Intervening had cost him his knighting. But he thought there just might be a way to rectify that.

The Elven girl had nowhere to go. That much was obvious. Her only kin had been killed in the fiasco at the circus, and the other woman was hardly more than a chance companion. But he was not quite ready to cast her aside to the care of the clerics for a vagrant. Not while he still felt that chance. That … pull. He didn't know what it was. But something had changed that night when he should have died. And, somehow, he knew _she_ had something to do with it.

"Stay here."

He told the girl not to leave the room. She did not protest. She never did.

Then he pulled his cloak on heavy to hide his armor beneath the coat and face. It made a hot Amnish day sweltering. And the crowded common room of the Copper Coronet made it no better.

He did not know where that other man went – the stranger with the glib, foreign tongue – and it worried him. That one had vanished outside the tavern last night. But the squire was sure that the dark-haired woman and the reticent Elf would be at the Copper Coronet to meet that noble today. He had seen the look in her eye last night. So he had stayed close. Whatever she might have thought, she was not done with _him_ yet.

And when he pressed into the inn that morning, his instincts were not proven wrong.

The girl, he found easy enough. She was hardly hiding there amidst the somewhat quieter and less crowded tables. A few unwashed drunks littered the floor, snoring. She stood in one corner, arms folded across her chest, dark eyes scanning the rest of the room. It was a strange look on that face to him. Almost … predatory.

She didn't notice him. Not for more than a few moments anyways. He was safe beneath his hood. But she was watching the door. And those eyes lingered.

The Elf was a little more difficult. He was hidden in one of the farther, darker corners. The innkeeper, a foul wretch of a man named Lehtinan, had let those torches die down. And there were precious few windows in that place. Sir Firecam's raid the other night should have brought that slave-herding scum down too. But there he was, scowling at his leisure behind the bar.

Anomen moved carefully into the room. Whoever those two really were, they were not stupid. If that meeting were only a foolishly contrived trap, then the bowman was working an oversight. He couldn't see the Elf's face beneath his cloak, but he was sure it was him. The squire made his movements slow, and as unthreatening as he could.

And she didn't notice until it was too late.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Her voice snapped at him suddenly. He just pulled down his hood, coming up beside her.

"You are making a mistake, my lady," he growled back at her cross look, sparing her an irritated glance. He did not know who this woman was, but she more than tried his patience. He kept throwing himself in harm's way for her and all he got in return was unflinching scorn.

"You have no _idea_ the power circles you would trifle with."

That lookturned dubious, but no less dismissive.

"What do you mean?" she demanded impatiently, even so.

The way she stood, arms tight about her and scowling into nothing at his presence – she almost looked like a petulant child. Had she not shown such a knack for getting herself in so far over her mildly pretty head, he would have learned long ago to just leave well enough alone.

Anomen glanced back toward the Elf in his corner. The man had tensed. But he had not moved yet.

He found the woman again.

"You cannot trust these men," he told her, his voice low. He tried to control it, and merely sound earnest. He thought he succeeded. For the most part.

"If the Cowled Wizards are truly behind the abduction of this friend of yours," he grated on gravely, leveling her with an eye. The gesture, as always, was lost on her before it had even begun. "Then that is where we should start looking."

She eyed him back for a moment. Just a little curiously.

But then she shook her head.

"I've seen what they are capable of," she all but spat at the last.

He wasn't sure he knew what that meant. He shared no love for the wizards, of course. No one in Amn really did. But neither did he hate them.

"My lady," he pressed. But she cut him short.

"No." She shook her head again, slowly. "If you want to help, then fine," she snapped. "But they know where Imoen is, and _they_ haven't tried to kill me yet."

"Yet," he muttered back at her, glancing away. He didn't bother to mention that night it seemed she was trying to forget.

Unfortunately, the gesture carried him right into the man he was hoping to avoid.

"Young Delryn," a man in fine scroll and lace beneath heavy, obscuring cloak acknowledged. An idle moment more and that tone grew immediately amused.

"I did not expect to meet you here as well. Though, I can hardly say that I am surprised."

A smile cracked across that other's face. For his part, Anomen's scowl burrowed even deeper into his bearded face.

"Lord Firkraag."

It was simple. Civil. Even at the worst of times, he knew his place at least. He thought so.

But the other seemed not to agree.

"Tell me," the other man pushed on good-naturedly, "how is your father faring?" He continued smiling down at the squire. Anomen didn't bother to answer. It was all he could do to keep his hands clenched tight at his sides.

"Still rolling around in the drink is he?" that other scoffed, still with that same smile. "Tsk. Tsk," he chided. "To think he drove his only son to the gutter."

"My lord," Anomen finally broke in. But then thought better of it. The first words on his tongue hastily fled from mind. And he forced himself to settle for baring his teeth and grating on in a gravelly voice instead.

"I hardly thought you brave enough to venture into such a," he glanced around quickly, "_cesspool_," and settled, "of corruption as this, without an armed escort."

"Oh?" The man abruptly clapped a hand to the squire's shoulder with a much-amused grin. "I did not intend to draw such attention."

He was alone, his fine regalia heavily doused beneath that drab, yet still finely-woven cloak. But he was a fool if he thought himself in anyway safe.

"You there," the lord pushed past the squire without another thought, suddenly seizing on the dark-haired woman beyond. "You are the one I am to meet," he said, "not this landless young, lesser noble. Come with me," he beckoned, "back to some privacy."

Lord Firkraag turned about and made his way toward the back rooms of the inn. Anomen followed, scowling, before the dark-haired woman could think to stop him. She didn't even bother, moving after the other. And the bearded squire did not miss the pointed look she gave the hooded man in the corner as they passed.

Lehtinan had an arena buried back there, well away from the fuss and visibility of the common room. Spectator booths lined an upper platform for his guests. They only found kennel fights when they had raided the place, but each of them knew the truth of what the man did with all the slaves he brought in. There was a reason for all the exotic animals too.

Evelyn gave the squire only a brief look when the lord ushered them over to one of those vacant booths. At that early hour, the small arena was all but deserted.

He slipped in beside the woman.

"I am called Lord Jierdan Firkraag," the man began once they were seated. "And you are Evelyn, of course, child of the late Gorion Greymantle.

"There is no need to look so surprised," he continued at the woman's askance look. "Word has long since come to me of your actions in Baldur's Gate."

His eyes narrowed at her – brilliant, green eyes. And that tone was brisk and clipped. He barely gave them pause.

"I see you as capable and headstrong," it chanted on with a thrust of the chin, "with the ability to handle whate'er is thrown at you." And he smiled pleasantly at that.

"Just the type of creature that I am looking for."

Anomen kept eying the other man dubiously. But his thoughts turned hastily to that woman in surprise for a few moments. He had no reason to like or even trust the other lord at his word, but they did give him pause. Up until then the raven-haired woman had been barely more than a face and a name and a lot of trouble. But whatever she might have done, he knew, if it had drawn the attention and praise of a wealthy noble in Amn, then she was far more than she seemed. He had certainly guessed as much. But he hardly knew if it was for better or worse just yet.

"Certainly you understand that these are dangerous times," the man was saying. His crystalline eyes were hard and fixed to the exclusion of all else on the girl. "And that extreme measures are often called for. That is why I have need of someone with your particular … skills," he mused with a faint grin at the last.

"I am lord of a community outside the city," he continued in that conspiratorial, yet still grandiose tone. "And while I provide for my people as best that I can, there are some things I cannot do." His amiable, plastered smile turned rueful.

"Battle is not my strong point."

Anomen grunted before he could think better of it. But then he did think better of it, and only hardened. Firkraag glanced at him, reproachfully.

"There are marauders," the lord continued, tone grown pointedly chiding. "Raging _brutes_."

And he stabbed a finger at the younger man.

"Not unlike your friend here."

He felt his face darken, but those glimmering green eyes had already flashed back to the woman. They did not even give him a moment.

"Horrid Ogres and Trolls," that tone took on tinge of disgust, waving a wrist. "And I need a firm hand to push them back."

Then he leaned forward, ever so slightly. Insistent.

"I need you, Evelyn Greymantle."

He let that hang in the air between them. The woman just stared at him in turn, saying nothing. She had been impassive the whole while he spoke, not one emotion playing across her dusky face. Anomen looked from one to the other, wondering, briefly, if she might have even been really listening. Lord Firkraag steepled his hands, thoughtfully.

"I offer a grand sum," he baited after a few more moments of patient waiting. "Worthy of a woman of your stature."

The squire also briefly wondered if that man had bothered to take stock of the dirty, mismatched clothes the girl was wearing. It should have been something he was unlikely to miss. _He _certainly had not.

"Fifteen thousand gold," Firkraag offered even so, placidly, "if you can free my lands of this scourge. It is a fortune, you will agree."

Anomen's eyes went wide. One, shocked moment of utter, incredulous disbelief.

And then he pushed hard right up against the edge of the table.

"Fifteen … _thousand_?" he breathed, dumbfounded and all but speechless. "For hunting … Ogres?"

Evelyn still said nothing, staring across that table. Maybe she was as stunned as he, though she certainly didn't look it.

Anomen shook his head. He had to force his mouth to shut.

"It is a small price for peace of mind," the other man said simply. "It is not as though I am without funds. I merely believe in paying for quality. You will be wealthy in my service, rest assured."

Anomen just kept shaking his head.

"You could have a small army for that price," he all but growled at the noble lord. Manners fell by the wayside. It could not have been helped.

"Ah," the other all but ignored it, "but you would not lump yourself together with common mercenaries, would you, young Greymantle?" The lord shook his head. He smiled again. "No, I require someone with finesse and skill, as well as strength. You," he leveled her with that pleased grin, "are ideal."

"But why?" the squire demanded, breaking in on them once more. The girl did not even get a chance to speak.

"Why her? Why so much? For Ogres?"

He glared at the man, suspicions clouding and twisting his bearded face. But the other only raised another irritated brow his way.

"Ogres are hardly beasts to be trifled with, young Delryn."

He turned back to Evelyn without so much as a second thought.

"You are the choice I make," he told her. "I have no doubt your service will be exemplary." And grinned wide, raising his imperious chin again.

"And if all goes well," he continued at the last, evenly, "We shall all receive exactly what we deserve.

"What say you?"

The lord leaned forward. Almost … eagerly. Predatory. Anomen looked in dismay from the other man to the raven-haired woman across the table. If he had been worried before, he could only feel matters spiraling out of his control now. They would not listen to him. The jaws of that trap were winding back to spring shut on her everywhere he looked. And still she had not spoken a word.

But then …

She _did_.

"Just tell me where to go."

* * *

"My lady!"

The squire snatched at her arm. He pulled her right back around before she could vanish back into the common room. And he was lucky that she now knew he was harmless. Otherwise, he would have gotten far more than an irritated look in return.

"My lady," he warned earnestly, shaking his head. "This is a mistake!"

All at once, Kivan came up from one side and slammed the other man up hard into the wall.

The squire struggled. But the ranger had the jump on him, his forearm wedged up against the bearded man's neck. His feet scrabbled against those stairs leading back down to the common room. They could get little purchase.

The Elf growled in his face.

"I don't know who you are, Human," his stony eyes beat into the other man mercilessly, "but you had better stop following her."

Anomen pushed back. But he had no balance. Eventually, Evelyn just opened her mouth.

"Let him go, Kivan," she told the ranger.

The man only spared her a sidelong glance.

"He's harmless," she explained, irritably. "Just annoying," and added under her breath.

The Elf dropped him unceremoniously back to the floor. Anomen struggled for a few moments to retake his breath. Then he rounded back on her.

"You do not know Lord Firkraag!" he coughed. "His politics. His motives." Finally, he straightened. "A man like that does not pay a small fortune just to kill a few beasts!"

"You think I don't know that?" she spat right back. And stalked a step toward him. "You think I believed a word he said?"

It had been too convenient. He had known too much. That the Shadow Thieves might be involved only made any suspicions seem far more likely. She was not simple or stupid. She had not survived so long without feeling the trap pulling shut over her head before it ever came.

The squire stared at her. At that look on her face. For once, he seemed a little unsure just what to say. It was no less irritating than another knight-to-be she had known once. And she turned away.

"What did he want from you?" the ranger asked, catching her up.

She didn't even slow. She just cocked an eyebrow back at him.

"We're going hunting."


	26. Chapter 2 Seen, Not Heard

_**Seen, Not Heard**_

One.

Two.

Three.

It clawed down against the stone, blood trailing in its wake.

Numbers. Time. Both were just as fleeting in the dark.

And she watched.

Four …

Five …

Hours. Days, she thought. _Weeks_ … she hoped.

But that scraping was insistent against the side of her cell.

Six.

Seven …

That sound - the sound of flesh on rock. It was like wool on steel inside her skull. Clawing deep furrows into the bone.

Her face winced. She felt it. Her beaten, _bruised_ pulp of a face.

Eight …

When her fingers ran out of blood, she finally realized what she was doing. Again.

Anger first. Then tears. Soon enough she was bawling silently in the gloom.

It was all she _could_ do.

She cried for a long time.

* * *

The door swung shut. And Imoen finally squeezed her eyes there too.

This room was damp. Cool. A torch burned bright in one corner. Just one.

It didn't matter. Sight was not the problem.

She had been here before. Escaped. Now, here she was again. Sweating, trembling, and alone. It was hard to suppress the laughter that kept threatening each time.

They tortured her. A little. It was nothing. Punishment for her _transgressions_. Useless questions about who and what she was. Another little _interrogation_ …

She could have laughed. It was all the same to her. Questions. Demands for answers. Some measured pain and a controlled response.

And she mostly suffered in silence.

Mostly.

It was one of those rare days today. Something about seeing another mirror her own suffering made it so much more real. Or so they must have thought.

The other woman was still mouthing incoherent little words. They had stuck her in there for punishment. And that one hadn't shut up since they started. Or, at least, she _tried _not to. Her silent moans were hasty. Feverish.

Imoen just tried to ignore her. She caught herself wanting to laugh at that too – the other woman. Sitting there, mewling at those little tricks they played. Singing skin and peeling it back. Poking and prodding and metal bits.

It was as if she had never suffered before.

She did glance over eventually, though. Her tongue was rough over cracked lips despite that that dank little cell. Imoen opened her mouth uselessly at the other – some soundless rant ready and spewing forth.

She froze instead. And watched …

As that woman pulled right free of one of her clamps.

That one quickly twisted over and freed the other hand. Then bother her feet. Then she was leaping up off the block, giggling gleefully. All fear and cowardice – gone.

It didn't last long.

The woman flew toward the door. Before she had even turned the latch, though, the thing was flying back in on her. One of the mage guards was looming there, waiting.

"Samara!" the man bellowed.

Her hand flashed up to rake his face with cracked nails. She followed through with a knee to the gut, but he managed to twist aside. He caught her hand.

Another mage pushed in. Between the two of them, they wrestled the woman to the ground with limbs and spells. Then started beating her. Imoen started to laugh.

Fitfully. Silently.

Eventually, the other woman passed out. But Imoen had long since grown bored.

* * *

Her fingers twitched. The tips were still bloody, sore, and crusting over. It was her wrists that writhed beneath those bonds, though. She looked down at them. And then back up.

Dark clouds choked the sky. They always did. And she wondered if it was day or not. She wondered if the light of the sun was buried somewhere back there. She wondered why they let her out at all.

The iron on her hands burned a little. It was the magic – keeping them together. And her apart. But she was not the only one.

It was the only time she was reminded that she wasn't the only one locked away in that hole. Recess, they called it. But she was sure it was just another form of torture. Reminding her of what she had lost. Otherwise, she might forget and learn to live without.

It was also the only time she was reminded that she was alone down there. The last tiny speck of sanity. All the others were mad. Gibbering old witches and wizards, bent and useless with that place. They were so far from the brilliant, high-minded and sanctimonious ones she had known in Candlekeep. Sometimes, she was glad at the Silence spell that kept them from speaking outside their cells. Sometimes, she could feel their madness bleeding into her skin.

She had been a novelty at first. Those wizened, grubby old faces with their childlike stupor had crowded around her at first. Excitedly. Clawing at her tattered clothes. For once, she didn't care at all for standing out. And the mage guards did nothing. It was all she could do to tear away from them. She left a few raked arms and faces before she was free.

She stayed away. Hid in corners. Dark, dark crevices where she hoped the black and the shadow might just swallow her up when she wasn't looking. She didn't want what they had. But it was stitched into the very stones.

The courtyard was quiet. It always was. And she sat there for a while, like she always did, ragged knees to her chest and squinting up at the gray sky.

Until that gong thumped deep through the stone all around her.

She had time to catch her breath.

Then lightning flared across her wrists, tearing up flesh. She twitched – contorting, legs flung out from beneath her even as she went rigid all over.

When she came to again, she was back in her cell.

* * *

She was counting again. Trying to keep track of the eternity trudging on all around her.

Her fingers scratched against the stone wall. They let her have nothing. The clothes she wore were the same she had had when they had brought her in – wherever they were now. The only reason she bathed was because the mages couldn't stand the horrible stink. And that might have been … once a week? A month? She didn't know. She certainly didn't bother stripping her filthy clothes. It was the only chance to wash them too.

She had no ink. But she had plenty of blood. She wasn't sure when that thought had crept in, but it had. Just with all the others. They seemed to multiply in that place, but she tried to ignore the loudest voice among them that kept trying to break through.

The funny thing was – the stone steamed and smoked beneath those faint trails of etched ichor.

It was something to do. And she hadn't quite decided to kill herself just yet.

* * *

More tests. Pain and voices. It all blurred to a haze in her mind. But she was sure they had long since stopped worrying about who she was or where she had come from. There was no doubt in her mind that they were put up and passed around to whatever wayward mage wished to have his fun test them with some new spells. It was only a slight change of pace.

Waking up outside became the only thing she really cared about. Even if she tore herself as quickly as she could away from all the others. It couldn't be catching. But something about those broken down, worn out minds and withered bodies just made her sick in more ways than one. If they had bothered to feed her more, she was sure it would have all ended up retched at their feet.

They played games. Stupid, stupid little games. Sometimes she watched them, horrified and perversely curious all at once. It wasn't as if there was anything much better to do. Somehow, she thought she must have been looking into a mirror of her fate to come. And that was when she wished for a knife to end it herself the most.

It was also when she noticed that woman from before.

Samara.

The others didn't like her. She would scurry amongst them, trying to tell them something or other. No one could speak, so it was a lot of limbs and harsh gestures, mostly. Bestial. Animal-like. And they would shove her. Hit her. Chase her away. But she always came back for more.

Eventually, she even found Imoen.

Her hair was wild, ragged clumps hanging down about fierce, darting eyes. The pink-haired woman didn't looked so much better, but she could hardly help getting sick in her mouth at the sight and smell of the other woman. Or the way she moved, scrounging on all fours sometimes as she flitted about. She came up to the younger woman with a stick in her hand, and Imoen could only tense up and stare daggers that she didn't have at her.

But that stick went into the dirt instead.

The other woman scribbled lines there in the gray dust. Imoen paid them only a little mind, cringing away and trying not to lash out at the other. She waited for some handsy blow. Waited for some hidden attack. Waited for her to just … just leave.

The other seemed disappointed after, and did just that.

It was much later that she realized that scribbling had formed words.

The madwoman tried again. And again. Eventually, Imoen even answered her back. The other ranted in gibberish, though there was some style to it. She thought it might have been another language at first – when she had realized it wasn't just nonsense. But she couldn't understand it. And the other wouldn't answer her back in Common. She just seemed disappointed, gesturing and flailing at her like a wild animal.

It was several days later that Samara showed her some magic.

The woman opened her hands one day, and there it was.

A flame burned atop the flesh. It left no mark, though.

Magic.

Samara promptly clapped her palms shut, smothering it. Then she gave the younger woman a sheepish smile. At the same time, Imoen could only stare. She had nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of it. Silence drowned the courtyard. Those magic-iron binds kept them tame.

But there it was.

Almost as soon as the other woman had done that, she leapt to her feet and twisted away. Before Imoen could even think, Samara had darted towards the nearest mage guard, tearing him down with bare fingernails and wild hands.

The others were on her after that.

Three of them came at her, ready to beat her down with clubs and fists. But they were not expecting magic.

Fire and bits of lightning leapt from her hands into their faces. One went down, screaming. Another stumbled away into the dirt, flailing at his robes. The third only stood there in shock.

Samara just plowed her way right through.

None of the other mad old wizards and witches seemed to notice. They ignored the ragged woman, even as she sprinted for the nearest archway.

She barely made it halfway before they caught her.

Unseen hands wrapped the woman tight as other mages recovered and noticed what was transpiring in the courtyard. Hasty spells flew at her from a dozen pairs of hands at once, not a one of them knowing just quite what to do. They all panicked.

And Samara exploded into nothing.

The silence was deafening then. Even as Imoen stared in shock. The woman couldn't even have made a sound. It was no more than a second. And now there was only bloody paste against the dirt to mark that she had ever been.

The gong sounded early that day.

* * *

It took her some time.

But she finally figured it out.

Days. Weeks, maybe. It was hard to tell. She had not had much to work with. But it did eventually come to her at last. She figured out what the other woman had done at last. How she had made magic with nothing at all.

A silent spell.

She had heard of it. All those years in Candlekeep and she had picked up a few theories about magic from assigned readings and vaguely overheard arguments. And she remembered something of that after long hours with nothing but tests and maddening silence. She only wished she had bothered to learn more when she had the chance.

A silent spell. The mages might have cut off their voices when they were out of their cells, but the silent spell was the answer. All they needed was a little leeway with their hands, and …

A crackle of lightning flared between Imoen's hands.

She laughed there, alone in her cell. As mad as it sounded even in her ears. Sometimes she did it just to remember the sound of her own voice. Sanity was a beacon being washed steadily away in the tide. And the wizards' insidious whispers were clawing inside her head all the time now.

There was something besides numbers to etch into the walls now. She pushed herself to remember everything the dead woman had scribbled into the dirt. They were spells, she had realized soon enough. Incantations. She knew, vaguely, that the nature of a silent spell naturally made it much weaker than it should have been. Those pops of flame and light would have been balls of blazing fire and bolts of lightning anywhere else. And before, she had barely more than learned to focus her own magic to make light.

So she remembered. And she wrote. Spell after painfully recollected, gibberish spell. It took her some time to get the pronunciation just right, but she had nothing but in her time alone in the cell. And there was no silencing or bondage there.

Almost too late she realized that the cell was designed to reflect magic back inside it. A clever enough trick, she thought through a haze of pain and burns. But it didn't slow her down much. She even laughed.

It took her some time. But then she was able to make fire outside too.

And all the while that image was in her head. She never could get it out. It stuck there like a nightmare – a bad memory. She just couldn't forget. Samara blasting into a million pieces into the dirt.

She had never had a chance.

But Imoen did.


	27. Chapter 2 Small Game

_**Small Game**_

"And where do yous think yous going?"

Evelyn stopped walking, and turned around. Two Ogres lumbered out of the trees right in front of her.

"Heheheh …"

A club as big as her hung in one's hand, a heavy flail in the other's. They both stood half again as tall as she was and more, hunched over and grinning wide, yellow-fanged grins. One licked its writhing, cracked lips.

"Yous in the wrong place, puny Human."

They were on a beaten road. The raven-haired woman had been walking on it. Alone. Until she had passed that thicket and the two beasts had cornered her. There was a time, a lifetime ago, when she would have been terrified. But she just stared at them. And it was just as well.

They seemed not to mind.

One of them laughed at her again. A gravelly, barking laugh, as she stood her ground.

There wasn't much fanfare or talking after that. The club just came slamming down for her head.

An arrow bloomed in the eye of the Ogre behind. She sidestepped the club, and the thing thundered into the ground. She was on the beast before it could even grunt.

Her dagger tore into that loosed arm. It was as big around as tree, and she barely cracked the surface. The thing barked at her in surprise. It bellowed as another arrow took it in the neck. A heavy form leapt up from a hollow in the ground beside the path, forming into the squire knight. He gave some emphatic cry, slicing eagerly into the fray.

Between his flashing sword and her flitting dagger, they managed to take the second monster down.

Evelyn stood staring down at it across from the bearded man by the time the ranger came up, bow in hand. Eventually, the Elven girl wandered up as well from where she had been hiding. Her blue eyes were always the widest when they fell on those dead beasts up close.

She glanced at the ranger, but it was Anomen who broke in first, breathing hard.

"Did I ever tell you about my battle when the Orcs came down into the Ommlur Hills once again, my Lady?" he ventured eagerly, swallowing down another heavy breath and continuing on without waiting for her answer. "In great numbers, they were a force to fear." He shook his head. "But, individually, they were no match for a real warrior," he said. "I, myself, was able to fight through man of them alone and take the head of one of their foul chieftans.

"That," he grinned, bright, flush, and glancing wistfully off, "was a glorious day." And eyed the two looming corpses. "There is always something undeniably satisfying in trumping such terrible beasts at close arms."

He rounded back on her, panting and beaming. Evelyn just looked to the Elf.

"Only two."

"I told you that was all I saw," he grunted back at her, taking a step forward. He crouched down and started pouring over the bodies.

"We should burn them," the squire said from one side, hands on satisfied hips as he glanced back. "The brutes might be slow," he mused aloud, "but so many attacks will eventually give them reason to come hunting."

"No. Leave them," she said simply, though, and turned away. He stared after her, brow furrowing. She trudged back toward the girl.

They had seen the results of some other attacks recently, leaving small bands of those monsters dead. She doubted they were killing each other. The attacks were too precise. Too … organized.

No, someone else was out there hunting them too. And she wanted them to know why they were not alone before the four ended up on the wrong side of an ambush of their own.

Aerie all but flinched as Evelyn came up. She had seemed as anxious as ever since they had come out there. She barely ate. She barely spoke. But there was little else for her to do or anywhere for her to go since her uncle had died at the circus. And she knew a thing or two about herbal poultices and patching a wound. It was one of the few reasons Evelyn had not left her behind just yet.

Instead, she stuck her arm out to the other. Aerie looked at it, hesitant at the sight of sticky, red blood splashed down flesh where the Ogre had managed to catch her. At the raven-haired woman's dark eyes, however, she hurriedly took it in her hands.

There was no thick, burning paste this time, though. Or water and gauze. Instead, the girl bowed her head a little and started murmuring under her breath. Evelyn narrowed her eyes at the other, frowning. A few moments later, and the flesh began to prick. A few more, and it started to knit itself back together.

Evelyn stared at her healed flesh for a moment, scowling and jaw tight. The other woman finished that mumbled player, while she just flexed that arm. As good as new.

It _was_ new.

"Isn't that a Gnomish god?"

The girl's eyes flashed up at her, tentative. Then fled again.

"Y-yes."

She left it at that. The girl had come with the squire. She didn't have anywhere else to go. And Evelyn just made sure to keep her as far from the fighting as she could. Anything else …

Well, it had just better not get in her way.

They did leave the two Ogres there. Just as they had found other dead bands of beasts of their like. That morning was the first time they had tracked any Ogres in three days. And in those three days, they had found no end to those raving bands of monsters.

It was mostly Goblins. Orcs. Some Hobgoblins. Those two Ogres.

No Trolls, though. And for that, they were lucky. Even the squire wasn't vainglorious enough to make light of that encounter.

Three days. Over a week more before that. Hunting those farms and woodlands leagues outside Athkatla. They had yet to make little more than a dent in those numbers. And no luck at all in finding out just who was out there hunting marauding beasts as well.

Kivan scouted ahead in the woodlands. Out in the wheat and barely fields, it was easy enough to see their black shapes up to a mile away, and they crept through the stalks. They didn't hide their tracks very well. And Evelyn made sure they left plenty dead in their wake.

"These are weeks old."

Kivan was crouched down in the dirt sometime later once she caught up with him. But the corpses around him were not Orcs and Goblins. They were farmers.

"We haven't seen any others."

He shook his head.

"They must have fled soon after the first attacks."

"The city?" she offered.

But it was the squire who broke in an answered.

"A keep," he said. "Lord Firkraag's keep. That is where they would have gone." He tapped the loaded bolt in that bulky crossbow of his against his helmed forehead, looking to the treeline far ahead. "They will be holed up there until the raiders have been dealt with."

She glanced at him. Then looked away.

"And where is his keep?"

"The eye of the storm," the ranger grunted, standing. "It has all the trappings of a siege." He rounded back on them.

"Firkraag said nothing about a siege." Anomen shook his head. "Only marauders."

"Maybe he didn't know."

The squire only scoffed.

"Or maybe he lied." The ranger pushed past him. "You were the one who said he could not be trusted."

They had been hunting those lands for more than a week. And for all that time, they had never ventured too deep inside. They might have been cut off. But now they had something to look for.

"We keep moving," was all she said, though.

They still had to find cover again before nightfall.

* * *

Evelyn stopped, and let the pack slip down off her shoulders. It plopped down in leaf and brush and sodden earth – one of the few benefits of dragging the squire knight along with them. That, extra provisions, and some sturdy clothes on her back for the first time in what seemed a lifetime. Maybe it was the gold reward, or maybe it was duty. But she had guessed right in assuming that he had some coin to fund them at least. More than Kivan or her, certainly. The girl, of course, had nothing.

It was a small hollow hidden away in the sparse woodland she brought them to that night. The beasts were most active at night from what they had seen, and they lit no fires. Just a handful of hours of sleep under constant watch until daylight. The ranger was used to it. Anomen almost enjoyed it, and she couldn't afford to care. The Elven girl was the one she knew must take it worst. But Aerie somehow surprised her. And she didn't dare to risk more before daybreak.

The bearded man went immediately to unfastening the bulk of his armor. He traveled light, but the mail was still uncomfortable enough to lie in for too long. The Elven girl helped him, and it was just as well. Neither she nor the ranger could have been bothered.

Kivan caught her up as the raven-haired woman started toward the edge of the trees. He had his bow in hand. Her dagger seemed a little trite beside it, but they both knew better.

"I'll take north," she said. The other nodded simply, and trotted away.

It was a starry night. But beneath the trees, the shadows holed together, thick. She had to make her way out slowly, listening with almost every step. By the time she made it to the edge of the shallow woods, though, she could see for miles out into the farmland plains.

There were fires down there. Little pinpricks of light. The beasts were hardly afraid. Even if they did know about their dead. The night was their ground, and those fires lit it up everywhere she looked.

She watched them flicker and move for a while. The night was quiet, and she could almost hear the guttural grunting on the wind. But instead, she heard the ranger.

"You finished quickly."

The man crept closer, but there was little to worry them there that night. He slid into the brush up beside her.

"And there was a time you couldn't have heard me coming," he uttered quietly, glancing out to the plains as well.

"Maybe."

It was a lifetime ago. And half again. More maybe. It was hard to keep track anymore.

But he didn't say anything to that. He just kept staring for a while.

"We're being followed."

The words came abruptly from him some minutes later. She looked at him, but he was still studying the scene ahead.

"Orcs?"

"No." He shook his head. "Far more clever at hiding their tracks. And keeping their distance."

She looked back away.

"How long?"

"A day. Maybe longer."

She wondered why he was there then. If something was following them, it must have been coming from the south. They had been pushing north all day.

"We'll move again in a few hours." She wasn't going to take any chances. "Lay another ambush." It had been only a matter of time before some of those beasts caught on to them. Especially the deeper they ventured in.

The ranger bobbed his head slightly, as if it were nothing. Maybe it was.

"We'll move down there. Tomorrow," she stuck a hand out to the plains. "Keep low and get a look before they catch up with us." She moved that hand aside. "If there are too many for us, we can–"

"Evelyn."

He cut her off, gently. And she looked at him.

"What happened?"

It was a simple question. He asked without returning her gaze. Or saying anything more.

But she frowned at him, bemused. But it was hard to see his face clearly there in the dark.

"What do you mean?"

The Elf shook his head, eyes still wandering the farmlands below. Those fires. He almost seemed … irritated.

"What are you doing here?" he finally continued, grudgingly, at the last. "Why did you allow yourself to be lured out into this place?"

"The city was any better?" she muttered.

"It is a trap," he growled over her quickly, angrily. Then rounded back with dark eyes. "This is Amnish land. The Shadow Thieves. They tried to kill me when they found out who I was looking for."

He drew in suddenly close. Conspiratorial, and insistent.

"You are valuable to them," he breathed, biting on the next. "A _commodity_."

He pulled just as suddenly back.

"What happened, Evelyn?" he demanded harshly again. Then stabbed a finger into the sodden brush. "This should have died back in Baldur's Gate," he said. "We _buried_ it there."

His eyes were boring into her. She didn't know what he was really after. But she looked away just the same.

She had never told him why Sarevok had been after her all along. She had never told any of them. Everything had moved so quickly. They all just assumed his coup was just that, and nothing more. They didn't know what she was. What Sarevok had been. Before she killed him.

It had died with Gorion. It died with Sarevok. And it would die with her.

"I don't know," she told him simply. And she didn't. It wasn't a lie.

She looked away just the same.

None of them could have known. It was simply … impossible.

But the other didn't give up so easily.

"Where is the girl then?" he demanded anew. "What of your guardians?" His gloved hand creaked as he clenched his fist. "Why were you abducted a hundred miles away down the Sword Coast?"

Her face heated as he spoke. Fingers had started clawing at dirt. She didn't know why.

"This Lord Firkraag," he grated darkly on. "The Thieves. That black pit where I found you digging through ash ," he tallied off.

That padded coat they had gotten her felt as if it was choking the life right out of her there on the ground. She could hardly even notice.

"How did you get to this place? _Who_ brought you here, Evelyn?" he muttered. "And then just _left_ you all alone. _Who_?"

"I _don't_ know," she snarled back at him at the last.

It took him aback for a moment. The suddenness of it. She seethed for a few seconds, silently fuming through her flaring cheeks. Something about it had made her so very angry. He should have known better. Or learned.

She didn't have an answer for him. None that she could give. But he managed to pull back and keep glaring at her from out of his cloaked hood as if she should. Kept pressing as if she should know something. _Anything_. But she didn't. She couldn't. She couldn't remember any of it!

Flashes.

Her eyes fluttered. She had to turn them away.

There was screaming in her head. Metal. Blood and magic. Burning. Searing. Blinding. Pain. It lasted for an eternity, and was over in a second.

She let out a trembling breath. That was all she had. Flashes of memories she knew by the taste that she didn't want to know. Blackness swallowed so much of it. Mixing. Swirling around. For a moment, it left her wondering who she was.

"I don't know," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut. There were tears in them. They rolled down either side of her face. But she wasn't crying. She felt nothing at all.

The ranger's eyes glinted at her in the dark. For a long time, they wouldn't leave her be.

"Don't ask me why I'm here, Kivan," she forced through bared teeth at him. "I'm going to get her back. You," she growled, struggling, "_you_ …"

Her hand twitched uselessly at him.

"_You_ shouldn't even _be_ here."

"Neither should you."

She just climbed back to her feet.

"_I_ don't have a choice."

"You do," was all he said. The sound of it was so irritating – so senselessly nagging and frustrating. She started to throw another hand at him, but ended up only grating her bared teeth at him instead. He just stared up at her.

That silent appraisal was disgusting.

Finally, she turned away, moving back to camp.

"_Evelyn_," the man growled after her before she could even get half a dozen steps. She twisted back around, jaw all but wired shut.

Something whistled past her ear.

Her head wrenched back about, instantly. But it was too dark to see. So she settled for frowning after the shadowy form of the Elf instead.

He had already leapt back to his feet, though. And charged her.

She only had a second before he took her down. They rolled into the brush, dead leaves, mud, and grass flung aside. That whistling sound was back. It rushed over, and cracked against wood, splintering into the ground.

She shoved the other off her with a growl, and the ranger scrambled away across the ground on his stomach. He threw himself up beside one of those narrow trees. Evelyn rolled the other way, and clawed earth until she found her own dark silhouette of bark and wood.

The night went silent again. The whistling stopped. There was only their breathing in the dark as eyes poured frantically over shadow.

"Do you see them?" she hissed over at the ranger.

"No." He didn't stop looking. "But there is only one."

They waited a few more tense moments. But nothing showed itself. She could all but feel its eyes out there in the dark, though. Another few moments, and she could hear it as well.

Wood creaked. Kivan had gone stiff, eyes widening.

Then he pounced on her and spun them both away into the ground once more.

The night hissed over their heads. The tree where she had been grunted as something struck it on their way down. They rolled until they hit the bottom. And then Evelyn was catching herself across the ranger's side, peering hastily back up the shallow hill.

Leaves and brush scattered everywhere, fluttering in the low breeze. Her eyes darted every which way, but she had so little of the Elf's affinity for seeing in the dark. A moment later, he was pushing her off and away from him.

"_Go_!" he snarled at her, even as he threw himself for cover.

She rolled aside again, keeping low. She found another tree, and stuck to it.

They both scrambled up, and went still. Evelyn glanced furtively around the trunk back into the night. But there was nothing. No movement.

She looked to the ranger, scowling. How could he not have seen them? It was bad enough he had misjudged their tracker. Worse, to be so blind. He was pulling free that curved dagger, his bow lost back at their spot overlooking the plains. She slipped her knife into hand as well, as quietly as she could.

Another few seconds. Crickets. Wind. Her breath in her ears. Nothing else.

She held it.

The leather of the Elf's gloves creaked around wood. She could just barely see him creeping around the trunk of that tree. Slow, silent movements.

Something crunched beside her.

She surged up to her feet, dagger flying. But there was nothing there.

She blinked, eyes darting everywhere.

But there was _nothing_ there.

The air twisted. And she froze.

Then it turned to steel, stabbing for her gut.

The dagger flashed in her hand. Metal slapped against metal, catching. Wide-eyed, she watched as the night air suddenly coalesced into a black figure. It shoved her back right off her feet.

The ranger's dagger snapped toward them in an instant. The figure sidestepped it, ducking behind the tree. Then it pulled out a second blade.

Kivan's footsteps were suddenly loud through the mud and brush. Evelyn scrounged around in the dirt for a glimmer of her dagger. Found it. And twisted back around.

A boot kicked it right out of her hand.

The figure was on top of her in a second, both blades poised to flash down into her chest. The Elf cried out, charging from behind. He was too far away.

"Sorry, my raven," the figure above her said then, "but this act is over."

He stabbed down.

Another shape rushed out of the dark then, even as she whirled away. That one came in behind the other, and an arm snaked around the first figure's chest. It was hauled right up and away from her.

The two stumbled off into the night. An elegantly curved sword flashed into the hands of one, and it swept in for the other. Twin blades whirled around like a dervish, turning it easily aside.

A hand caught Evelyn's arm, and Kivan was there, pulling her right up off the ground before she could even move again. He propped her up against the tree, fierce eyes pinning hers.

"Are you alright?" he demanded harshly.

She twisted free of his grip, not bothering to answer. He stole a hasty look at the two shadowy figures fighting instead. She did too.

The other two danced about in the dark for a while. Each graceful sweep of that curved sword threatened to cut the one in two. But those twin blades flashed and twisted, spinning every which way and keeping always just out of death's reach to the sound of scraping, sliding, and slapping steel.

Kivan leapt back up, his curved dagger in hand again a moment later. Evelyn stood beside him.

He gave her another sidelong glance. The figure with the twin blades had the other up against a tree, the curved blade between steel and his neck. They stayed there, grunting and struggling.

Evelyn hefted her knife in one hand. And loosed.

The hilt struck the twin-bladed figure in the back of his head. He stumbled. The other didn't hesitate. He kicked the dazed figure over and down to the ground. That curved steel swept up and around, but Evelyn shouted before it could come down again.

"Stop!"

Kivan circled to one side, curved dagger in hand, while Evelyn snatched back her knife. It was a pitiful match for that long, elegant blade – either of them. But that one let the sword droop just the same. It raised a placating hand.

"That is hardly fitting for someone who just saved your life," it offered, an amused grin in the dark. Recognition flashed in the Elf's eyes.

"You again," he scowled then. Evelyn had already started toward the one on the ground.

That one looked up, blinking numbly as she came over him. He didn't reach for his weapons. She didn't give him a chance.

"My raven?" he breathed, bewildered.

And her boot came down swiftly on his face.


	28. Chapter 2 The Jester

_**The Jester**_

"You should have killed him."

Something jerked at his hands, binding them tight. His bruised face was swelling, and squashed painfully into the ground.

"I wanted him alive."

All at once, he was hauled up and twisted back around. Then his back was shoved back into the dirt. Cord dug in viciously to his wrists beneath him.

He blinked up with some difficulty. But those two standing over him were familiar enough in his eyes.

"He is right, my raven," he managed, still groggy. "This sparrow was meant to fly."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Then the Elf's gloved fist was crashing down into his skull. He barely got a chance to grunt and fall over before the man was snatching him back up with a fistful of his coat collar.

"Why were you following us?" the Elf growled at him, baring teeth. His breath stank of wood, earth, and meat.

A predator. A beast. And those canines glinted as if they might tear into his throat at any moment.

He laughed.

"Ask your master, dear hound," he said, amused. "She knows just as well, I think."

The Elf scowled at him, but cast a glance back toward the raven-haired woman. She only shook her head.

He managed a laugh.

"Do not mock me," he chimed back in at her as the Elf rounded on him once more. It was only a little irksome. "You have butchered the flock and clipped my wings. There is no more reason to hide it. Gloat," he commanded her. "You have _earned_ it."

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, now. A little less doubtful.

"You were at the inn," she said. As if the memory were an old one. And less than significant.

He flashed her a wide grin, and would have waggled a chiding finger as well had he the wherewithal.

"But I was not there when you dug your talons into my flock, dear raven," he challenged.

The others among them had all been roused. The one bearded young cleric who had looked after her at the inn butted in then.

"What in Helm's name is he talking about?" he cast about to the raven-haired woman, seeking the answer there as well. That one still wore an expression of ignorance, however well she tried to hide it from them. But it didn't fool him. Her black heart beat like a dirge for the damned, filling his eyes with the stink of the Lower Planes.

"Are you all such fools?" he snapped, a little bitterly at them. He glanced about. "Or did they take no part in the fell deed?" He finally fixed on the woman.

But none of them seemed to have an answer for him.

"He had been tracking you for days," the man with skin the color of browned honey chimed in. That was the one he had so sportingly ignored until last night, when he had intervened.

So much for small favors to the damned.

"And I him," the fool continued. "To think he meant to kill you the whole time. Eh," he shook his head. "I suspected. But could not know for sure."

"And what are you doing here?" the Elf growled back at the man. It was obvious they had no taste for the black-hearted Berk either.

"Not as he was," he gestured to the bound man, "whatever you might think. Quite the opposite, in fact," he added thoughtfully. "In truth, I had suspected that was _your_ thought for the girl when we first we met."

The Elf glared at him for a few moments more. Then looked back away. The bound man only fixed darkly on them all, wishing they would just finish it. Death he could stand – expected. The mindless chatter and agonizingly offensive ignorance, he could not. Death to a cage …

But the woman didn't give him that choice.

"Gag him."

* * *

Heavy footsteps rumbled past. Great, leaden strides. Grunting and barking sounded commands all up and down the path. Leather creaked, flatulence flew free, and whips and chains did too. Crude wooden carts rolled, wheels shifting through mud. They all marched along and past, just above a steep little ditch.

It was a train of Orcs, Goblins, and even an Ogre. That one bore some ridiculously ornate crown, cracking a cat-o-ninetails in the air and bellowing orders at the rest. They trod in files – a column – along the raised, beaten path through the field. All armed and armored. All maintaining some level of crude discipline.

One of the Orcs did wander free, though. He stepped aside to the ditch away from the road, pulling open his mottled trousers to relieve himself.

A bolt stuck through his jaw. Then two more before the thing could more than jerk in surprise. A curved sword plunged into its gut and pulled it down below.

Evelyn winced as some of that foul blood managed to splash on the side of her face. Yoshimo and Anomen gently eased the thing down to the mud below, wary of a splash. Kivan had a hand stuck back at them and his ears riveted on the noise above, anxious for any sign that the one Orc had been missed. After a few, long moments … there was none.

The honey-skinned man slipped his blade free of the corpse without a sound. Anomen plucked those bolts, whipping them clean in the weeds before replacing them in the clip to that bulky crossbow. He pulled a small lever, clicking another quietly into the load. And looked at her.

They waited until the war party had passed. Then they were on their way once more.

Farmlands were all that stretched about them now as they made their way into the interior of Lord Firkraag's lands. Wide, sloping plains spotted with a few sparse copses and lonely trees. They were at the mercy of any roving bands of monsters that might happen upon them out there. But the Elf's eyes were far better than any Orc or Goblin's, and she kept them to the long grasses and wheat and barley fields. There was little use in the ranger scouting when they could see so far and would find no traps.

The way the squire knight and the ranger had argued it, they would find some sign of the lands' keep on the horizon before nightfall. They could reach it by tomorrow, find whatever else it was out there hunting those beasts, and get a much better idea of that game they had so blindly stumbled into. That _she_ had so blindly taken them in to.

So Kivan grumbled under his breath. Always loud enough for her to hear.

They took turns carrying the reigns that bound the assassin's hands. He trotted along, eyes anxious but unafraid. He didn't seem to care much for his situation, but he hardly seemed to care about anything at all. There was no game in his eyes that she could see. He only seemed content to wait and watch for what would happen next. The foreign man had been the only other one following them, though, and she did not think he meant to kill her. Kivan was keeping a close eye on him just the same.

"What are we going to do with him?" Anomen asked late in the morning when he passed the assassin's bonds over to her. She didn't answer him, though, just studying that forlorn man curiously to one side.

The squire pushed close to her ear.

"I laud your mercy, my lady," he said, his voice low. "But this man tried to kill you. We cannot keep him in such dangerous country, and we cannot let him go."

His meaning was clear. It was a strangely cold and practical one from a would-be knight. Especially him. She only nodded her head. And he let her be.

The assassin was Elvish. Or so he seemed by his fine features and tipped ears. His eyes were too dark, though. Black – like giant pupils. His spindling, fissured face and mist-blue hair – it all smelled of something just a little more. There was … something. But she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Different. Though his histrionics were hardly out of character from a certain Elf she had known.

There was a warmth at her side. A burning heat through the leather of the scabbard hanging beside her pack. She winced at the feel of it, squeezing her eyes shut.

When she looked up again, she caught him staring back.

No. Not at her. She realized that quickly enough. The assassin was staring at his two swords belted at her waist. She pated one reassuringly. Then started leading him on again.

"So … what do you mean to do when we find this keep?"

The foreign man had come up on her sometime later. He gave her an inquisitive eyebrow and easy grin when she glanced at him.

"You have been killing these beasts for days," he continued, "from what I have seen. Do you think to strike at their heart, assuming it is even there?"

She looked away again. And trudged on for a few moments, keeping the assassin in sight and reach ahead of her. She didn't answer him.

"I only ask," the man pressed politely, "because there does not seem to be much wisdom in attacking the bulk of a larger force head on when you can continue to whittle away their strength in the field …"

She glanced at him again. He shrugged. Then she opened her mouth.

"Tell me," she said then, and he nodded his eager assent. "Why are you following me?"

He cocked his head to one side, that grin turned lop-sided.

"You do not remember me?"

"From the city," she frowned. "Yes. I do. I left you to go away then too."

But he shook his head.

"Before that," he told her. She stared at him, and he bobbed his head. "You _do_ remember?" he prompted once more, disbelieving.

She gave him no sign, though. She had never seen him before that day.

"The dungeon," he said, finally, raising a brow at her. "Beneath Waukeen's Promenade in Athkatla. The mad wizard's lair …"

For a moment, she couldn't have heard him. Not right. For a moment, she just stared blankly.

"A friend of yours saved me from a horrible fate down there. I promised her I would help …"

He kept talking. She saw his mouth moving. But there was only the sound of rushing blood in her head. The world crawled around her. Slowing.

Knives.

Jagged. Wicked. Hacking. Slashing.

Steel in her flesh. Picking at it. Prodding.

Fire. Flames burning and searing. Stinking. Meat and bones.

Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

Screaming.

"Evelyn."

A hand grabbed her arm. She jerked back to, sucking in a frantic breath. Her eyes darted quickly about.

It was Kivan.

The ranger caught her gaze and pointed. She followed the gesture without thinking, still breathing hard and desperately trying to keep from shaking visible there in her boots.

A gray blur loomed on the horizon. She couldn't make it out. But the Elf's eyes were good enough for the both of them.

It was a keep.

* * *

A starless night.

Shadows rumbled in the dark overhead. Thunderclouds sneaking in loudly over the coast. Another storm was coming.

There was no fire again that night. The wet would come soon enough, but it was the grassy fields stretching all around them. Another fare of hard, soggy biscuit and a small bit of cheese. As it was, she hardly dared sleep at all.

A surprised squire had found her awake when he came to rouse her for watch around midnight. Now she was alone, the rest asleep – if the Elf _did_ sleep. She crept over to where the assassin's dark form lay huddled.

He was lying on his side, facing away. Maybe even sleeping. But she was no fool. She slipped her dagger in hand.

The other reached out for his still form. She tensed, as it alighted on his arm. But no sudden jerk came. No surprise attempt to strike at her and break free. She rolled the man over onto his back, and his eyes blinked up at her in the dark.

He had not been sleeping. She had expected as much. But neither had he been lying in wait. Instead, he just looked up curiously, and expectantly, there in the black.

She stared back at him. For a few moments. Then she took that knife to his cheek and sliced the gag free.

The Elven-looking man flexed his jaw, making a relieved sound in his throat. He worked the bone for a few minutes. Evelyn watched. She kept the knife ready in her clenched fist.

Eventually, he stopped. And looked back up at her.

"Have you finally come to pluck this sparrow's eyes out, dear raven," he inquired nonchalantly. She just narrowed hers down at him.

"Why were you trying to kill me?" she brushed his flippant words aside. That ate at her more than anything else. She had stopped her half-brother. She had killed everyone who knew the truth. And the rest were dead. There was no one left to hunt her. No matter what Sarevok had said.

But the other surprised her by laughing. The sound was low and quiet in his mouth as he glanced briefly away.

"I think you know, my raven," he said simply. He almost sounded bored.

But now it was her turn to surprise him. She snatched him up so suddenly by his coat that he nearly gasped.

"How did you know?" she demanded, pulling his scarred face to hers. "Who was still alive to tell you?" she hissed. "Who? Tell me!"

He sobered. He almost seemed angry for a moment.

"You were slack," he scoffed then. "The butcher's work of the nether planes has always been brute, callous, and careless."

His eyes flashed dramatically wide.

"You left one _alive_ …"

She stared at him for a few moments. That melodramatic, gloating look. It was pathetic. She had seen it all before.

Her head fell close to his. And her voice lowered dangerously, even more so.

"I won't make that mistake again," she breathed through bared teeth in his ear. "Tell me who it is, and I'll just cut your tongue and hands off. And leave you here."

He laughed. A low, bitter, and mirthful sound. His head twisted away from hers.

"She's already dead, my dark raven," he mocked. "You killed her back at the playhouse."

She narrowed her eyes at that. He kept laughing quietly. But she frowned at him. She tightened her grip on his coat.

"What are you talking about? Who?"

His mirth hung on for a little longer before dying off. He studied her. Then his face broke into another lop-sided grin.

"Do not take me for a fool, my raven," he chided her. "You may play the carrion bird, but I," he exclaimed softly, "_I _soared with the greatest of the theatre flocks of Sigil! I have known your half-demon spawned ilk a hundred times over, and again!"

Her brow furrowed at that rant. After a moment, she dropped him back to the ground, abruptly. He still glared up at her with excited eyes. She wondered if he knew how close he was to death. But she thought he did. And somehow enjoyed it.

"Why," she broke in on the silence again once more. His manic look was edging her own sanity back. "Why didn't you try to kill me back at the inn?" she asked.

He shook his head, as if she should have known. As if her ignorance were growing less amusing and more offensive. He said as much.

"You had not tried to take us yet," he told her. "We did not know if you would. We preferred you not realize that we knew what you were and why you were there."

But at that she pushed closer, intent. A little bit of that edge crept back into her voice.

"And just _what_ do you think I am?"

His head cocked to one side. He seemed to have some trouble understanding her need to know. Or that she merely seemed not to.

But she did. Now she was not so sure that he did as well.

"An agent," he said then. "A half-demon underling of the Cambion that hunted us." He smiled again just the faintest bit. Pleased, as if it were some sort of insult. "I am truly disappointed it took you so long to finally catch us with those vicious little talons, dear raven."

She stared at him. For a few more moments. That look on his face was mocking, gloating, and self-indulgent. It broke her into a smile of her own abruptly. It almost made her laugh.

She grinned at him for a little while, amused by it so suddenly. All of it.

Then she bent down over him. She pushed her lips to his ear.

"I've never seen you before in my life," she breathed, still flush. "I don't even know who you are."

And smiled.

"Or care."

She pulled back. And stood. She looked down at him.

"Whoever killed your friend," she chided sweetly, flippantly. "I never met them either."

Elminster had said there were others. Other Children. So had Sarevok, before he died. But that man, at least, knew nothing of them. Nothing at all.

She gave him one last, infinitely amused look.

And left him there alone in the dark.


	29. Chapter 2 Dances with Ogres

_**Dances with Ogres**_

"Your thoughts."

Kivan glanced over at her from where they lay flat against the grass. The brush was sparse about, but the gray clouds gave them cover. It wasn't much, but that sodden rise kept them just above sight.

"That they're the only thing between us and the keep," she said simply. And it was true. Past that muddy encampment of Orcs and Goblins. Even a few Ogres.

The ranger continued to eye them warily, keeping his head low inside his hood.

"There are more than two dozen," he told her, quietly. "We should find a way around."

But she shook her head.

"There are plenty more of them," she knew. And they might lose the advantage of surprise then. Those beasts were expecting something from the keep, not the open hinterlands already being combed by roving war parties all about.

The rains were light but made the ground slick. It had already soaked through her coat where she lay on her stomach. The ranger kept his bow painstakingly dry. And the slope leading up to them would be difficult.

"The archers first," she told him, as if he hadn't realized that long ago, she was sure. He just grunted, nodding his head.

"Don't worry about the bigger ones," she added after a moment. "Just take down as many as you can."

Again, he merely sounded low his assent. And then there was nothing more to be said.

She slipped back away from the crest.

When they came back, she was crouched down beside the squire knight behind a tree. They were back atop the rise, Kivan and Yoshimo spread out and away behind their own cover aside. She glanced toward the honey-skinned man.

There was a small bow of horn cradled easily in the man's one arm. She had asked him if he was any good with it, but he hadn't even bothered to give her an answer. Just grinned at her like a fool. It didn't matter, though. He could be distracting enough to help keep Kivan safe.

She glanced around the wet trunk in front of her back down to the camp below. There was only the sound of muted grunting and growling, drowned out by the soft pitter-patter of rain on rustling leaves above. The would-be murderer she had left back with the Elven girl down behind them and far out of the way. She honestly didn't care what happened to the Elven-looking man now, and doubted he might try to break free and come after her again. And the girl was the least useful one amongst them. Expendable.

Kivan raised his hand to get her attention across the rise to where he stood against a tree. He had the best vantage point he could find there. Right down that mud-slick hill. She doubted they would even get close to him.

She nodded her head back at the Elf. In another moment, his bowstring drew silently back. And loosed.

A squat little Goblin was reaching for his bow. Idly. Instead, he pitched back over into the sodden dirt with a warbling cry. The one next to it threw its black and yellow eyes up. That maw dropped open into a piqued growl. And it took a jagged mouthful of steel and wood.

They noticed then. Something cried out – a harsh bellowing alarm. Kivan was silent, raining down swift death from one beast to another, motions mechanical. He took down another two before they even realized just where he was.

Roaring erupted everywhere. Evelyn stuck her head out. An Orc started charging toward the rise and took an arrow to the skull instead. It jerked back over. Another went down as Yoshimo chimed in from across the crest.

That got them. For a few moments. Another two were dead before any of the little monsters could make sense of it. And by the time they did, it was only to have one of those Ogres start howling aloud. The beasts started snatching up axes, clubs, and bows. A few seconds, and they were charging both ways at once, screaming up toward the muddy hill.

Arrows came hissing back at those two from down below. One of them scored the bark beside Kivan's head, forcing him aside with a grunt. Another stuck in the ground under the honey-skinned man's feet. He leapt aside, throwing himself toward another tree.

It was her turn. She slapped Anomen in the armor and leapt to her feet. Around the soaked trunk of that tree and she was screaming down the side of the hill, squire knight just a few steps behind. He lagged, and she flew ahead and away from the ranger, howling at the top of her lungs.

It worked. Those bows cut around and loosed on her instead. Black shafts hissed through the air around her head, stabbing into bark and muddy ground. They were nowhere near as good as the Elf, or she would have been dead. As it was, one managed to catch her in the side of the arm.

She slipped, and tumbled, hand flinging wildly out to catch herself, ahead into a tree. It got her elbow, hard, and shut her up instantly. A few more arrows trailed after, but she managed to pull herself up behind the cover of the wood, seething through clenched teeth.

The squire knight fared better. He made it a few more steps down the side of the rise, throwing himself down and out of sight. That heavy crossbow clicked in both his hands, and he glanced back toward the Elf.

Kivan had come back as soon as those archers were off him. And he had made them pay for it. Orcs and Goblins were already halfway up the hill to him, though, clinging and crawling through the mud. They were too low to the ground, and the ranger didn't even bother wasting arrows on them.

Anomen did.

Crossbow in hand, the bearded man rounded on those monsters creeping up the muck. They didn't even notice him as he started tearing in at their flank, hissing bolts punching through furs and armor alike from where he hid just behind them. That latch clicked furiously, his hands flying with it. Bolt after bolt flew with barely a second in between those howling beasts.

Something roared. Evelyn twisted back around, only to see one of those Ogres down below grab a huge slab of rock, tearing it right out of the ground. It hefted it up in two massive arms, and sent it hurtling away into the trees. She only caught a glimpse of Yoshimo as he dropped his bow and threw himself back and away out of sight.

Those grubby, writhing bodies were still scrambling up the muddy hillside, snatching branches and trees and whatever to claw their way faster. Anomen kept tearing in at their side. Between him and the ranger, they started to push them back.

Something hissed at her. She had just enough time to throw herself over before a black, serrated blade hacked into the bark at her head. Her knife slipped into hand. Then into a Goblin's guts as she surged back up.

She caught another's throat on the back swing, and kicked a third away, tumbling back down the hill.

There were only the Ogres left then.

Kivan threw his bow back up over his shoulder, leaping down the mud and hitting a tree closer to the ground. Anomen slapped another canister of bolts into place atop his crossbow, glancing over. Evelyn just watched as one of the beasts tore a small tree up out of the sodden earth below, swinging it around.

Bark exploded against bark, raining down all around her. Evelyn crouched down, shielding herself with the one good arm. But her tree held. And the other slid back down along the mud.

Those beasts roared. In rage or frustration, it was hard to tell. The squire caught her eye.

"Ready!" she shouted back at him, snapping the arrow in her arm and replacing the dagger with one of the assassin's short blades.

Lumbering footsteps started toward the hill. They would not find it so difficult as the others.

The ranger slipped his curved knife into hand. The bearded man only nodded.

"NOW!"

Evelyn twisted around the tree, throwing herself up. So did Anomen, howling aloud as he pulled a mace and sword into either hand. The ranger was silent, cloak fluttering as he hit the mud.

They didn't get very far.

One of the Ogres loomed up in front of Evelyn. She ducked low as it charged right for her, heavy feet crashing through mud. It stumbled as it did, though, grunting aloud. That stumble became a fall, even as it lumbered forward, and Evelyn slowed.

Then the thing was on its knees, still sliding forward. It finally hit the ground face-first, and slipped headlong toward her feet.

She looked up.

The other two beasts had twisted back around. One of them was lucky enough to get a bolt and an arrow or two through its neck. The other barely started heaving back the other way before a heavy sword slammed right through its gut.

All three of them came up short then. It didn't take much longer to pick off the two monsters as they bled out into the rain-soaked ground. And that was it.

They were all dead.

And the three were left staring at a group of armed men surrounding them in the clearing.

* * *

"Drink this."

Evelyn looked inside the crude little cup. Then she looked back up at the Elf.

"What is it?"

He didn't answer her, though. By the cut of his face, she knew it was better not to have bothered asking. She knew him just well enough to read the lines in stone.

As it was, she might have had more time to study or think about that viscous brown paste. But she didn't. Someone pushed through into the tent, bowing his grizzled head beneath the canvas.

"Squire Delryn," a voice bellowed out from the old man there standing in his full plated armor. With gray-streaked hair, thick mesh of scars, and wizened beard, he must have been ancient. It was a wonder he could hold up under all that metal and steel. But he did. And then some.

Evelyn shut her eyes and threw back that concoction the ranger had made her while the bearded squire hurried across the tent toward the old man. By the time it took to slide down into her throat, she had some increased warning as to how bad it would taste. And, almost at once, she gagged, doubling over. If her arm had not already begun to turn black from whatever poison the beasts had coated the arrow with, she would have clutched it to her burning guts. As it was, all Kivan's potion did was distract her from the lingering pain and feel of dying flesh.

Anomen came to a dead stop before the older man in his plate, snapping arrow-straight and tense. Two other men in thick metal armor flanked them to either side, thick helms crooked in their elbows.

"Sir Firecam," Anomen acknowledged smartly. Both arms were tight and his back was as stiff as a board.

The old knight stared at the boy, face as hard and pitched as granite stone. It was several painfully long moments before he finally opened his mouth.

"Just what do you think you are doing here, squire?"

Evelyn finally managed to recover some, giving the Elf a vexed glance as she straightened back up. They had already fished out the rest of the arrow after sending her to that small tent for holding, but couldn't have spared any remedies for the poison. Not to a stranger they found in a hostile area, she was sure. Thankfully, Kivan had been a little more generous with her keeping her limbs.

She swallowed back bile, nearly vomiting there on his weathered boots.

Maybe not so generous. On second thought.

"_Gods_," she spat, dry-heaving over the dirt a little. The ranger didn't seem too bothered.

Anomen's face had gone red beneath his trimmed beard at the other's tone. Those paladin-knights had been as unexpected a surprise to him as to her and the Elf.

"Following my charge, Sir Firecam," he barked back smartly again. Another moment, and he was canting his head as quickly as he dared in her direction.

"She was passing through these lands. I have been seeing to her safety."

Evelyn glanced over at the sound of him mentioning her. At that last bit, though, she wasn't sure if she should be insulted or not.

The older man looked back. He studied her for a moment, curiously. He might have remembered them picking her up off the battlefield a few hours before. But he just rounded back on the squire.

"Is that not one of the young women you abandoned your assigned duties for during the raid on the slavers' ring?" he intoned reproachfully. The younger man went a shade darker at the words. "You were only supposed to escort them back to the chapter halls and turn them over to the priests' custody."

He continued to bear down on the bearded squire. At that, though, Anomen just barely managed to open his mouth.

"Forgive me, Sir Firecam," he interjected, still red-faced and flush. "But your orders were that the two women were to be placed in my charge. You said nothing of turning them over," he offered hastily. "And I have kept guard over them since."

The old man eyed him for a moment, stern and impassive. Then he crooked a brow.

"You mean to tell me that Squire Delryn has, for once, followed direction without self-interpretation and modification of orders?"

The chiding question hung in the air there for a few moments more. Anomen could not bring himself to answer. Just stand there.

It was pitiful.

But the old knight merely grunted.

"Very well, then," he said.

"Carry on, Squire Delryn."

The bearded young man blinked at him, frozen. For a moment. Then he relaxed, visibly. He barely managed an awkward salute as the older knight swung away, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief at the other's back.

But then that elder knight was suddenly heading Evelyn's way.

It had been hours. Harshly snatching them up after the fight and herding them into that camp – making them prisoners of war. She would have lost her arm if the Elf hadn't bothered. _Noble_ knights. She could have barked a laugh in his face, had she the patience to care.

Still, she eyed him warily – not bothering to hide it – as he came to a stiff halt right in front of her.

"My lady," he greeted a little gruffly, looking her over. It was not so callous, but certainly no more appreciated. "You seem little better for wear than the last time I saw you."

"Do I know you?"

She didn't care to hide any hostility either. They were some kind of knights-errant, she was sure – fighting whatever good fight they had found out in that wilderness – and he their leader by the sound of it. Most likely from the same order as the simple-minded squire. That in itself gave her no comfort. And being hastily gathered up in woods at sword and knife point hadn't helped much either.

"No, I should think not," he countered easily with a twist of his cracked lips. "You were quite badly beaten at the time, as I recall."

He held her gaze. She could feel Kivan's eyes in the side of her head, though.

"What do you want?" she finally asked.

Suspicion. Or just caution. Either or, she hardly cared to get caught up there for long. It was all too dangerous standing still. Always. And she didn't much like being a prisoner either.

The old knight looked to each of them. And settled on her.

"You and your companion," those eyes flashed aside, "are quite far afield." And fixed heavily back. "I want to know what you are doing here."

"Hunting Ogres," she told him quickly, easily enough. "And you?"

He stared at her for a moment, that heavy brow full of steel and iron. Maybe she sounded impatient. Or just rude. But she wasn't one of his knights. And she wasn't Anomen. She didn't flinch for him.

"Hunting Ogres …" the old man mused, still bearing down on her. He was almost a head taller, and the bristling plate and hard muscle made him seem so much more. He might have been old, but far from weak.

"And why would you be so far out here doing something like that?"

She folded her arms easily across her chest.

"It pays well enough."

If the old knight was getting at all irritated with that flippant, brash attitude, he didn't let it show. Which was too bad. From what she did know of their prideful sect, they usually took much easier affront.

"Someone hired you to hunt those Ogres," he surmised, a little chidingly. As if the notion was circumspect – or just ridiculous. His slow, glib tongue was pushing back just as easily, and it was becoming a gamble to see who might break first.

"And why would they do that?"

"I didn't ask," she said. "It was a _lot_ of money …"

She smiled up at him.

"And who gave it to you?" he pressed, too quickly. It was his mistake.

"I didn't ask that either."

She could feel Kivan eying her from one side even still. The knight continued scrutinizing her hard, from the other. And she wondered when that attempt at interrogation might finally turn serious.

Still, it was several moments more before the old man opened his bearded face again. But the canvas swept back behind him, and someone else strode swiftly inside.

"Sir Firecam!" another knight called out in a huff, twisting their way. He hurried over just as the old knight turned back around. Then Evelyn saw him too, past the older man's metal bulk. And froze on the spot.

"Knight Tybald has his reconnaissance detail back from the keep, and–"

The man had taken a place beside the older knight, rattling off that hasty report. But then he caught his own offhanded glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. He did a double take, looking a little apoplectic. Finally, though, he settled for just blinking at her in surprise.

"E … Evelyn?"

He stammered. And she felt herself sink just a little bit deeper into the ground.

"Evelyn," the knight exclaimed again, incredulous. "By the gods," he gasped, "what … what are you doing _here_?"

She didn't bother to answer. She never got any farther than a sickly twist of her lips. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but it wasn't good.

"How …?" the other gaped on even so, reaching a gauntleted hand out to touch her as if she might not be real. The elder knight managed to reign him in before he made that mistake, though.

"Knight Ilvastarr," he grunted. And that snapped the younger man out of it.

"Yes, Sir Firecam," he spun back to the other. "Knight Tybald is awaiting us to debrief. His scouts have–"

"Do you know this woman, Knight Ilvastarr?"

The younger man abruptly stopped. Sir Firecam was gesturing idly toward her as if those reports meant nothing at the moment. Ajantis blinked back anew her way.

"… Yes," he told the elder knight. Almost grudgingly. He nodded his helmed head. "She was part of my … report back from my questing in the north."

The elder man turned full on him, brow high.

"That business in Baldur's Gate?" he said. "_This_," his gauntleted finger thrust at her vindictively, "is that one?"

Ajantis hesitated for a moment. But bobbed his head again readily enough.

"Aye, Sir."

Evelyn stood there, eyes flicking from one to the other. She didn't like the sound of that. Not at all.

The senior knight didn't even look at her.

"Tell Knight Tybald to meet me outside my tent for debriefing," the old man ordered, turning briskly on his heel and striding back away. The younger man only managed a quick acknowledgement before hurrying on his way as well. And then they were both gone again.

Evelyn had almost forgotten the Elf. He pushed up at her side, though, taking her arm in a hand and growling.

"We need to go. Now."

Evelyn only nodded her head, even as he dragged her away.


	30. Chapter 2 Bushwhacked

_**Bushwhacked**_

The camp was quiet. Hushed. Men were sharpening swords and cleaning armor everywhere, as softly as they could in the dense, muddy brush. Tents were beaten up, torn, and weather-stained. They had the look of too much use, and abuse. That place had been hastily torn down and put up somewhere else far more than just once.

Too many eyes looked up at the sight of her. She moved as quickly as she could without being too obvious. But it was hard. The only Elf and woman in that little company of swordsmen and knights were hard not to notice. Being covered in mud helped only a little.

"What about the girl?"

Kivan's eyes were darting everywhere, any slight movement from that armed camp stared down for the briefest of moments before the next threat snatched him away. But she was just as bad as him.

"What about her?" she whispered harshly back. She kept pushing as inconspicuously as she could ahead.

"She is alone with that assassin," the ranger muttered at her elbow. They still had their weapons. Fat lot of good that it did them. And he was out of arrows.

The knights had rounded the three of them up quickly enough, dragging them back to their camp. Anomen was surprised, but not so worried as the Elf had been – at least as far as she could tell, even if he kept it hidden well enough. She had said nothing of Aerie, the Elven assassin, or Yoshimo. And she had not seen them since. The squire had seemed too put off to remember.

"She'll be fine," was all Evelyn said, really not caring too much either way. Besides, they had disarmed the strange Elf and all but strung him up.

The other gave her a sidelong look. And she ignored it.

They had almost reached the edge of the camp when the inevitable happened. At least, she had merely been waiting for it. It was some small favor that they made it that far at all. Before the two knights that had been following them finally made a move.

At least it was polite.

"I'm sorry, m'lady. Master Elf," one of them called her back with a warning hand. The other was on the hilt at his hip. "But we have orders not to let you leave the camp."

The other man looked just as grim, and even more set beside him. She doubted it was much concern for their wellbeing that stayed their hands. That whole episode had been somewhat less than friendly so far.

"Please – come back with us."

The other few swordsmen lounging around close by took only a little notice. Somehow, she doubted they wouldn't just sit idly by, though. She wondered who the muddy ground would give more trouble to across country.

Evelyn gave the ranger a furtive look. He was already ahead of her, hand tensed. Her own hand twitched for the one of the assassin's blades, but those two were in full mail, coif to boots. Those others scattered about were anywhere from that to thick leathers. All armed. It would be decidedly one-sided. One way, or the other.

Then, someone broke through.

"My lady!"

At that sound, the bile turned just a little more in her stomach, and her eyes squeezed painfully shut. It was hard not to just draw the sword anyways.

It was Anomen. He shouldered his way between the other two men, bearded face red and excited. If he thought anything amiss, he certainly didn't show it. She briefly wondered if he thought anything of that precarious stance at all.

"My lady, you must come with me," he all but begged, throwing a beckoning hand her way. She hadn't seen him since his dressing down by the old knight, but he certainly seemed no better or worse for wear.

"Sir Firecam has requested our attendance at the main tent!"

She narrowed her eyes at him, scowling, and incredulous. How he could be so _stupid_ and oblivious … she didn't know. But the look on his face was intent, eager, and pleading all at once. It made her feel like swatting a child.

She looked to the two knights who had stopped them. Then to those men about. Then back to Anomen.

Finally, she glanced at Kivan.

It was a hard choice.

The squire nearly charged off again before she could even finish growling. Somehow, he managed to take the unintelligible sound for assent.

* * *

"Your companions have been gone quite a long time, my dove."

Aerie glanced over at the strange man tied to a tree. They were all alone in that little thicket. It was hard not to keep the worry from her face.

"And silent too," the other continued musing aloud, and smiling. "That was quite the clamor they engaged us with, don't you think?" he said. "A wonder it was so short-lived. And they have not returned since."

She tried not to look at him, shivering there in the cold. Her skirts hardly did her any good in that weather. Or out there in those terrible wilds. Alone. The light coat she wore did very little.

The raven-haired woman had left them there – tucked away out of sight and from the monsters ahead. She had gotten just a little bit used to it by now. But he was right. It had never taken them so long before …

"My, my, my little dove," the man chuckled at her lightly, his lilting voice rich and full. It had been far more enchanting on the stage. She was close enough to hear no mirth in, though, the sound heavy and grim. Now it just made her cringe.

And his black, pupil-less eyes flashed wide.

"Do you think they're _dead_?"

She shook a little. Involuntarily. And looked sharply at him. He only grinned harder.

"B-be quiet," she told him. For what little good it did.

"You are far too lovely to be so foolish, my dove," the man cooed on at her even so. He shook himself with an exaggerated sigh, tugging gently at those bound wrists where they had strung him up against the bark. "Come now, and free me. I will take you out of this villainous place …"

The raven-haired woman had told her not to go near him – had stuck a finger in her face and warned her not to touch him or even speak to him. She just tried to ignore him. She wrapped her arms up around her chest and kept looking away.

Eventually, the man sighed again. Loudly.

"I am disappointed, my lovely dove," he lamented. Loudly. "But this really has gone on for _far_ too long …"

She ignored him. She ignored that exotically beautiful, scarred face with its lithe strength and enigmatic secrets trying to taunt her. She ignored the forsaken mischief that played in his ink-black eyes, desperate to catch and pull her into their trap. She ignored that captivating vibrato that carried his words aloft like birds in a gentle breeze, ever sucking her sensitive ears back in.

She ignored him until she heard something bodily hit the ground. Then she was twisting back around.

And he was gone.

She blinked, furiously. But his cords still hung limply from the tree.

Swaying. Listless.

She was all alone – more alone than she had been, even before. Her hands fell at her sides. She took a step back, shaking all over. A hard chill crept up her spine.

And a hand snaked around her neck.

She would have cried out. But she was too afraid. The muscles in that arm tensed anyways, jerking her back. That strange man breathed in at her ear.

"Be still, little dove," he soothed.

But it wasn't at all soothing to her. She clutched feebly at his arm, tears burning at her eyes.

"This was never your part to play."

He twisted around with her easily as she hobbled in his grasp. He was too strong, and quick. She just clenched her teeth helplessly there, weeping silently through her teeth.

"And that part," he exclaimed gallantly, swinging her around again like a ragdoll.

"Is over."

She hit the ground, and everything went black.

* * *

If Evelyn thought they were prisoners …

Well, it was hard to tell.

The main tent was little more than a few of the others stitched together by canvas with a battered-looking table in the middle. Men in mail and studded leather clustered close all around it in throngs – more than a dozen, at least. And it stank in there like ripe meat and sweat. They were quiet, and attentive, as a man in the middle hunched over that table and spoke just loud enough for them to hear.

"… in the courtyard at a dozen – No more than twenty at any time. _Less_ on the ramparts during the night. Most out in war parties. They seem to think the high walls and warning bells enough to keep them safe …"

That one was sticking his finger into the wood as he spoke. She could just make it out through the crowded shoulders of all the others as she passed. It must have been some kind of map.

The next voice she recognized only too well.

"They are complacent. We strike now – tonight even – and we can retake the keep. We just need the ramparts, and we'll have them."

Ajantis stepped forward to the table, pouring over that map intently. The man beside him glanced up.

"Take the walls quietly?" he mused, doubt thick in that voice beneath his hood. "No easy feat. They are most awake in the dark." He shook his head.

"It will be our only defense," Ajantis pressed, but there was little more optimism in his own words. "Cover enough to get close at least. And most of them will be preoccupied with pillaging."

Sir Firecam stood just behind them, impassive. Watching. But his head turned now. It shifted to the figure just beside him – almost lost in the sea of hard-bitten soldiers and knights.

A woman.

After a moment, she nodded.

Ajantis and the other man at the table continued pouring over their map even so, plotting whatever weak points they thought might be best to strike from. A few others joined in around them. None of it seemed very promising, whatever the determination. That was written clearly enough in each of their faces. A lot of arguing broke out quietly amongst them.

Anomen made a poor guard. Almost as soon as they pushed into that tent, he had all but left them behind in his efforts to edge closer to the center. None of the others seemed to notice her or the ranger as they watched from beyond, and the two who had been trailing them fell away as soon as they had gone inside. Evelyn only rounded the group slowly, curious and impatient. That discussion continued – their war-planning – and she wondered why the older man had bothered to call her and Kivan there at all.

Kivan's gloved finger tapped her wrist.

"Look."

She followed the Elf's surreptitious nod to some of the men standing, huddled close. Only a few of them were in mail. Those other ones were all in hardened leathers.

"The crest," he murmured to her. And she saw it. They were all in uniform, as ragged as it was. And they were different than the knights'.

"A noble house," he mused quietly. It was the same thought in her head then, too.

Not just the knights. Evelyn began to notice that there were all too few, then. Some of the others bore emblems in patches like those on Sir Firecam's dress. But it was not just them alone in that camp. Whatever that meant, she was sure she only cared so long as it got in their way.

"Attacking the keep is suicide," another of the knights broke in heatedly on that discussion, a little louder than the rest. He quickly caught himself, though, and pushed down to a controlled whisper. "Our casualties would be too high. We can't spare the men!"

Ajantis rounded on him.

"As if they'll be any better continuing out here," he scoffed irritably, though it was clear he hardly disagreed. "But direct action must come sooner. Not later. Or we are lost."

"We will only bleed out that much more slowly in the field," the hooded one at the table added, evenly. "We cannot keep up our limited supplies for long."

The other shook his head.

"Trading one death for another is not how we will win this fight," he argued on. And the others would have eagerly continued it. They all looked disagreeable enough over those circumstances as it was. But Sir Firecam stepped in then.

"No it is not."

The others all glanced his way, briefly. He stabbed a finger down into the map.

"There is a secret entrance to the keep," he said. "A hidden sally door. Here." The other three looked to where he pointed. "The Lady de'Arnise has given us the way."

There was silence for a few moments. All of a sudden, gears started spinning the other way. It took time for the rest to catch up.

The hooded man hunched over the table spared a quick glance back to the only other woman in the room.

"It can be opened from the outside?" he asked skeptically.

"It has been some time since the place needed a sally," the old knight answered him. "It has mostly been used as a secret entrance. And a secret escape."

"It will do," the woman said quickly, breaking in. "It leads directly into the kitchen storerooms. I will show you the way."

"Yes, it will," Sir Firecam came back around. "But your presence will not, my Lady. Your guard captain will show us the way.

"Three teams," he continued, drumming purposely now down on the map. "Two to infiltrate the keep through the sally door an hour after nightfall. One secures the courtyard, the other captures the gate and drops the bridge. A third," he scraped a finger across the board, reading his thoughts aloud as if a grandfather telling a story to his children, "will follow through the gates, and hold off all counterattacks in the courtyard while the first two fall in to support. The first and second teams will then move in, and clear whatever remains inside the keep from either direction. Here. And here."

He continued on like that for a few minutes. Evelyn paid it a little mind, edging around the fringes of the group until she was furthest from the tent entrance and those two men who had been guarding them. Most of the knights would travel light, through the sally door. The rest would come in heavy, and hard, in plate, through the gates once they were open.

Ajantis was leading that mission.

"Captain d'Mortimet?" Firecam glanced up, briefly, to a pale, dark man with a scar hiding half his face in that crested armor. "Your archers will have the sentries on the parapets. Two minutes after the first and second teams hit the door and no more than five before ceasefire."

The captain merely grunted in his throat.

The others took their places. When it was done, Sir Firecam straightened back from the map.

"I will be with Knight Hammlin and the second team."

He leveled the room with an eye above the table.

"Questions."

Low musing and shaking heads. That determination was grim, and set. But no longer doubting.

A few muttered questions broke their heavy, anxious thoughts. They were countered quickly, though. And easily. Whatever was going on there, it had been in the works for some time, and apparently would finally come crashing down tonight.

The old man canted his head.

"Dismissed."

Evelyn watched, and waited, as the men filed past and out. Sir Firecam kept those ones that had been closest to the table for a moment, bending over to speak in the hooded one's ear. She started toward him when it was just those few left in the place. Kivan lagged behind.

"Lord Firecam."

Someone else called out for the elder knight's attention before Evelyn could butt in. A pair of swordsmen brushed past, nearly stepping over her. She held her tongue, though. For the moment.

"Lady de'Arnise," the old man rounded unhurriedly on the woman. Whatever the state of that makeshift war camp, her finer clothes were only a little weather-beaten and the worse for wear, her hair even done up in tresses. She looked all but totally out of place with the knights.

Either way, she strode right up to their leader, planting herself firmly in his sight.

"The Radiant Heart," she began, red-flecked cheeks painted and angry, "promised me–"

"The _Order_," Firecam cut her fuming rant off before it even had a chance to start, "promised to return your family's keep, my Lady, and to help clear this threat from Amnish lands." He reached over and began rolling the map from the table up into his hands.

"My _father_," she tried again. Again, he spoke right over her.

"Your father may very well already be _dead_, Nalia," he rounded back on her after a moment. "The same cannot be said of you. Nor will it, so long as I am here."

He shook his gray, shaggy head. Then tucked that map away, back in a case.

"You will stay back," he told her firmly. "Farthest from the fighting."

"You told me …" she pushed irritably on, however – almost threateningly. If the older man took it as one, though, it did not show. Instead, he bowed his head down to her level, touching a gauntleted palm gently to her slim shoulder.

"That I would take your home back for you," he told her softly. "Don't worry," he gave her a comforting squeeze. "This Firkraag will answer for his crimes."

At that, Evelyn stopped. Sir Firecam embraced that poor girl like she needed it. By the looks of it, she did. But wasn't at all happy about it.

A few of those swordsmen with their noble crest escorted the girl grudgingly out of the tent. As soon as she was gone, it was just them and a few of the knights.

Sir Firecam rounded back on her.

"So," his lips twitched beneath that gray-flecked beard, "you are still here after all. I had hoped to speak with you outside the tent once I was done."

By the flick of his eyes toward Anomen briefly just beyond her, she knew that it was a mistake that she had heard any of that at all. The old man kept it well hidden, but the bearded squire all but blushed where he stood.

She just raised her chin at him.

"Your men didn't give me much choice," she admitted. And she even managed to make it sound a touch sullen.

He smiled a bit more indulgently at that. And the last of his other knights left. It was just the five of them alone now.

"Knight Ilvastarr has been reminding me of some of the more interesting details of your time together," he began, far more innocuously than it sounded from where she was standing. He was toying with her again.

"Oh, he has, has he."

She glanced briefly to the younger man beside Firecam. Ajantis' face was softer, though. Suspicious, or merely curious – but unthreatening, and easy to read. He was only a little less dull-witted than Anomen behind her.

She came back to the old man.

"Yes," he continued, rather cavalierly. "Many of them rather remarkable and suspect, to my understanding of things." It didn't fool her for a second, though.

"It leaves me wondering all the more just why you are here."

He finished the last bit with some weight. Silence hung across the tent interior then, and they started to wait. It was all too obviously her turn now.

"I'm not going to repeat myself," she said instead. And she wasn't. She had already told him all she ever would.

But he was no more satisfied with it.

"I find it difficult to believe you came all this way merely to hunt those beasts on a bounty," he softened a little more, but not much. "It has been made clear to me that you are no mercenary."

She didn't have to look at Ajantis to feel his eyes pushing her for the truth. But she wasn't sorry to disappoint.

"I don't care what you believe."

"Evelyn!" Ajantis growled at her like that man deserved anymore respect than he had earned by kidnapping them off the battlefield without one concern. But she was tired of that game – that insultingly coy and feeble attempt at interrogation. They had already wasted enough of her time with that stupidity.

"Are you going to let us go?" she asked instead, no hope sounding in the words. She knew the answer well enough already – had known ever since they had brought them there. Nothing was ever simple, or easy. And she was not to be disappointed.

"How could I do that, my lady," he answered, almost regretfully, "when I do not even know where your loyalties lie?"

She sighed.

Anomen was skulking somewhere behind, unnoticed. She wondered what the squire had told the old man about that deal with Lord Firkraag – how that might be weighing against Ajantis' words and turning in the elder knight's mind. They might have been captured already, but it was only now that she could feel the bars sliding down shut around her. And something very painful twinged at the thought.

He was waiting for an answer – Firecam. But she looked back over her shoulder to Kivan behind. All he needed was that look.

She turned back around.

And gave the old man an answer.

Anomen didn't give the Elf too much trouble. He had been edging up behind the bearded man the whole time they had been alone in that place. And the hilt of his dagger over the other's head knocked him clean out before he could more than gasp at what she was trying to do to Sir Firecam and Ajantis.

The two knights took some effort. Her hand snapped into the old man's windpipe, shutting him up before he could speak – muddy boot sailing into the face of a suddenly wide-eyed Ajantis. The curly-haired knight hit the table, and she twisted around to send her foot into his side before he could topple it. The man crashed headlong into the ground and lay still.

Sir Firecam was waiting for her when she came back around. He was not so weak as age should have made him, red-faced but standing as he tried to grab hold of her. She caught his arm instead, twisted it around, and slammed another hand into the side of his throat. One more crashing down over his head as he bent double, and she had him in the dirt too.

Kivan loped over toward her, surveying the handiwork briefly before snatching her arm.

"They won't stay down for long," he said, beckoning her away and heading toward the side of the tent. Before they had gone inside, both had noticed where it touched closest to the wooded forest. The Elf snatched up the canvas and she slipped underneath.

A few moments more, and they were gone.


	31. Chapter 2 Deadringer

_**Deadringer**_

"She's alive."

Evelyn glanced back over her shoulder from the tree where the ropes hung, catching sight of the ranger crouched down over Aerie on the ground. He had the girl's limp wrist in his hand, touching two fingers to the artery. After a moment, he dropped it, and looked up to her.

"Wake her up," she told the ranger, turning back on the tree. She would be damned if they were going to drag that hapless girl anywhere with them.

The Elven assassin was gone. That much had been obvious when they returned to that place they had left Aerie and found her slumped on the ground and the tree empty. It had been several hours at least, but the knights hadn't been too far from their temporary camp. Thankfully, they didn't know where it was or that the two of them even had any place they'd bother to run.

She picked up one of the ends of the ropes and held it idly in her hand. Then dropped it. It was a pity.

She had rather liked the assassin strung up there and harmless.

When she came back around, Kivan was hefting the Elven girl over his shoulder. She frowned at him, shifting her deadweight against the bone.

"I told you to get her up."

He flashed her an eyeful of impatience, grunting. She shook her head.

"Are you going to carry her the whole way?" she demanded, irritably.

"Yes."

"Fine."

She stalked over toward where they had left their packs. Checking them over quickly, she didn't think there were any surprises left for them there. She slipped hers on and tossed the Elf his and Aerie's both. Yoshimo's wasn't there.

"You can carry her things too," she told the ranger. He didn't bother to give her any argument. He just caught the two packs in his free hand.

"What now?" he asked instead.

She patted the two blades from the assassin still belted around her waist, along with the dagger she had kept from the Shadow Thief back in Athkatla. Kivan managed to pull a few extra arrows in a case from his backpack, belting them at his hip.

"We can't stay here," she said. Now that the assassin was loose she didn't care to stay anywhere for long. If they were lucky, he had tried to find them along a different route – or just given up – and didn't know where they were. If they were lucky, he wasn't skulking about there that very moment. Not that she was any more than a little worried about him anyways.

No, the knights were the bigger problem. The Ogres and Orcs even more so. She wasn't sure if they would bother tracking them, but she knew Sir Firecam had at least had a few men who could do it. They had hardly bothered to hide their tracks in escaping. And the beasts were still roving about for all they knew. Their only good fortune was that most of Firecam's men would be preoccupied with their siege, and hopefully not even bother following.

"They said they were going to take the keep tonight," she reminded the other. They were not supposed to have known that, and she could easily wonder at what the old man's suspicions were. Especially now. She had no doubts that he had gleaned from Anomen their bounty and who it was with.

"Lord Firkraag does not have the keep," Kivan supposed aloud, adjusting the girl with his bow, the two packs, and his quiver. She shook her head at him.

"Maybe he does," she said, "but it's not his keep."

It was no coincidence – that a contingent of knights and men-at-arms were out in the middle of the woods talking about retaking a keep with a noble girl in tow. She had heard enough of what they said to realize just what she thought might really be going on there. She had never believed any of those stories in Athkatla from the start, so there was no betrayal. No, she just wanted her money and an answer. And maybe a little blood.

"I think I might know where to find Firkraag," she told the other once she was done with her pack and ready. He gave her a curious look in turn, following as she turned aside back into the trees.

"And where is that?" he asked, frowning.

She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. And then just smiled right back.

"We're going with those knights," she said, smirking. And pushed on ahead back the way they had come.

"Into the keep."

* * *

"Now, hold still. This won't hurt a bit …"

Chains rattled angrily against metal and wood. Pulling. Stretching. A few moments, and her arms were jerked up over her head and plastered back flat against the table. A few more, and her feet and ankles followed too.

The winch cranked a bit more. Already, her muscles drew tight. They tensed, veins popping out through the flesh. When her jaw started to clench shut, that man bent close at her ear.

"Does that pain you?" he inquired curiously. Waited a few seconds for her to say something. Then shook his head.

"I guess not."

A few more turns. Her shoulders and thighs began to pop, threatening to burst right out of the joint. She could not help her mouth falling open then – as much from the rest of her being pulled apart as her lungs desperately trying to cry out. No sound would come, though. It never did.

The man bent close once more.

"You really must tell me when to stop, dearest. I have no other way to tell."

He stared at her for a time again from beneath his cowl. She couldn't keep from letting herself be drawn into returning that gaze, flames and death and daggers pouring out of her eyes back at him. He had tried to keep his face straight whilst she silently gasped out anger and agony on the table, coming apart at the seams. It could not keep up for long, though, and a smile broke out from him at that. A little laughter couldn't be helped.

"Oh, well. If you insist."

He reached for the crank again. The door across the chamber opened before he could pull, however.

The man looked up as one of the mage guards poked his head inside.

"Withril!" that wizard cried out, face red and fuming. His knuckles were white around the steel of the door. "You sniveling toad! Get over here at once!"

The man beside the table cringed visibly in his dirty shirtsleeves, wincing at the sound of the other's voice. That one only glared bloody murder at him for another moment before he ducked back out again, all but slamming the door shut in his wake. As soon as he was gone, though, Withril managed to recover some of his courage. Enough to toss her a warning leer.

"Now, don't go anywhere …"

He waggled a finger at her. Then his face fell back down again, and he trudged grudgingly toward the door. He whistled aloud until he pulled the latch back, and then vanished outside.

For a moment, Imoen was left alone in that dirty little room. She waited, hardly daring to believe that one of the mages might not come bursting back in at any moment. Her luck could not have been that good. She stared at the door, breathing sharp, shallow breaths in her throat while her limbs still threaten to pop right out of their sockets. But the man did not come back.

The pain seemed so much worse than usual just then. It was what decided her. She cowered for too long, indecisive and uncertain. But the waiting was killing her. The fear had already swallowed her up and spit her back out so long ago. Now madness was eating away where it had left off.

She felt that black bile climbing up in her throat. It was what decided her. Her limbs were stretched tight against the table, ready to snap. But her hand could just barely move.

Some blood seeped into those fingers. She stared up at them desperately, clipping forefinger and middle together. They descended as one on what was left of the meat of her thumb. There, they caught on something metal.

She sucked in shallow, seething breaths. For once, the silence spell did her justice. There had been no way to get anything into that place with her that might be of use when the time came. They would have known, or she could not have reached. But the blood on her hands hid it well enough. They mostly just ignored it now. And, bit by bit, she managed to pull that tiny little metal rod out from under her skin.

The flesh was so tight on her arm she could see the ligaments move, tugging at her fingertips. Blood pumped sluggishly through those veins, and she gritted her teeth. And when she finally had the thing back out again, she didn't dare keep herself from gasping aloud in relief. No sound broke the silence of that room, though. Not until she started working the little rod into the keyhole at her wrist.

She had played a bit in Candlekeep. She knew a thing or two about locks. It was just luck, though, that those wizards never thought any of the mad inmates clever enough to pull themselves out from inside their leash. If Samara had taught them differently, it didn't show. Imoen had learned, though. She had learned something from that woman's useless death.

And when she heard the click she was waiting for, she nearly died there on the rack. Maybe she did. She froze, eyes wide and disbelieving – shock, and horror mirrored in her face. It had been so long – she had suffered so much … Now, now …

The manacle popped open, and her arm came free. All at once, feeling returned full in a rush, and she clutched the thing to her middle, mewling through her teeth.

She was free.

Something snapped inside her at the thought. And she started laughing. She fell back against the wood and dissolved into a fit of silent, rampant laughter.

It didn't last long, though. She remembered her other limbs at the crash of that chain rattling back down.

The winch sputtered as all the tension in that manacle let loose. It jarred the room, shaking her entire world. But not for long. She was already tearing fiercely at the other clamps before the thing was even done clattering to the floor.

Her other arm and her legs came loose as well. A few moments later, and she was standing on her own two feet again. For a brief second. Then she was collapsing quickly down to the floor, legs rushing with fresh blood. They were limp, flailing uselessly against the stone. Full of pins and needles, bruises and throbbing pain. But she was free.

An eternity in that horrible, stinking place.

But now she was free.

And they were never going to touch her again.

She managed to pull herself up with her good arm on that table. Scrabbling against the wood, everything was dull, numb, and next to useless. She got an eyeful of the door, teeth bared as she tried desperately to hold herself up, and staring at it. Any second. Any second now …

Those wizards would come storming back in. They would try to take her away. Again.

But the whispers inside her head came first.

All sound drowned out. Blood was thundering inside her skull, and the world went mute. She tried to cry out, but couldn't. She tried to scream. But couldn't. Everything was ringing. That voice slammed into her full force from where she had buried it so deep, hammering into her with a vengeance. It came – unintelligible and howling like screams out of the Abyss. Every muscle and nerve in her body fired all at once.

She opened her eyes again, and she was on the floor. Choking, she clawed her way along the dirty stone. Back up to her feet. Unsteady, but working now. The living world was back, swallowed up in that dark hole. She could hear again. She could _feel_ everything in one piece. And see it too.

The door swung open.

"You better not have broken another one, Withril!" a man blustered as he pushed the other into the room. "I swear, if we lose another test subject, I'll–"

They came face to face with Imoen, holding herself steady across the table from them. All three of them froze. For just a moment. The briefest second.

It didn't take long at all.

Imoen was not the first to move, hunched over there seething through her clenched teeth as she eyed the two wizards.

But she was the first to kill.

Withril stood still for only as long as it took his meager mind to turn over. Then he was darting around the table, crying out angrily and desperate to get a hold of her. His bulky body came flying at her in full, hastily snatching for her ragged form. But she still had that tiny rod in hand. She buried it in his left eye.

The man shrieked, fat body backpedaling into a torture rack as he threw himself away just as quickly. He tumbled over with a fitful, feeble cry, catching himself in a fistful of chains. They all went crashing into the ground in a cacophony of stone and steel and fat, rubbery skin together.

"Withril, you fool!" the other man shouted out at the fat man rolling around mewling on the ground. It was all he managed to do. Before he could even bring up his hands up, Imoen had hers in the air. And that just made the man laugh.

"What are you going to do, girl?" he scoffed at her, grinning wide. It was hardly pleasant. "Pantomime me to death?" He barked another laugh, shaking his head.

Her fingers managed to work. Just barely. A moment more and blue light erupted out of her, flying into him across the room.

The table between them exploded. Vaporized. The man's scream filled that dark space of a sudden. Then was gone. And she was standing alone.

Looking at a smear of bloody paste against the wall.

She stared for a moment. The two halves of the table clattered down with a heavy thud to the stone, lying at awkward angles. There was nothing left of what had stood in front of her. Even the floor had been scraped clean as if something had cut a swath right through solid rock. Whatever had happened to that man, it had been over in less than a second. And it had left him less than a person.

Imoen stared at those hands for a moment. The veins pulsed – black lines slithering up her arms like serpents beneath the skin. She twitched her fingers and there was fire, seething across the tips. Closed her palms, and there was lightning, crackling through her bones.

Samara had written her nothing of this.

Withril was still blubbering in the corner, whining aloud to whoever might hear. His hands were at his eye, fingers wrapped tight on the metal bit stabbed through the tender flesh. Fat chins shook as he babbled pitifully against the pain.

And she left him like that.

The door slammed back upon its hinges. All it took was a wag of her finger, and her silence ended in a raging shriek of fury. Torture racks picked up and pitched every which way. One might have buried that fat mage, but she didn't pay him any more mind. Metal twisted and rent – stone blasting itself back out and away. It all came like a torrential maelstrom of blind fury, surging out of her hands and into the stinking hell cringing all around her.

Energy coursed through her, lighting up her blood and snapping out into the stone. She felt her hands warm, magical light building up inside her palms. It was a power she had never known. More than Xan had shown her. More than Gorion.

Hate and anger boiled up beneath the flesh, jumping out and pitting rock with bolts of light as she passed. It came from that. She felt it surge out of her heart, into her veins, and vengefully leap at her fingertips. A touch could wilt, wither and destroy. A wave of her hand and another life was crushed beyond repair.

And all the while, that whisper was back in the back of her head. Urging her on.

She stepped out into the hall for the first time in an eternity. Samara had never stood a chance.

But she did.


	32. Chapter 2 Enemy at the Gates

_**Enemy at the Gates**_

"They're moving."

Evelyn glanced over toward where the Elven ranger was looking, but she couldn't see anything. As it was, he was squinting, and she could not have matched him under normal circumstances. That night had already come on thick hardly helped matters much either.

"How many?"

He watched for a while. She waited. For a while.

"Well?"

"More than two dozen," he said, finally. The last of the day's light had all but faded, and it was only because they had taken that rise between the knight's camp and the keep that they could see anything at all. They stayed low, hugging the earth, and well out of sight.

"What about the keep?" she tried again.

From what she had seen, the walls were manned by Orcs and Goblins, alright. It had become quickly clear just who was master of those lands at the moment, and it certainly wasn't Lady de'Arnise, or her knights. It was a wonder the small company of men had managed to survive so long in that wilderness with no stronghold and marauding Ogres prowling the countryside. By the sound of things, they had lost the keep some time ago.

"They were right," the Elf told her after shifting to the stone ramparts across the way. "Their numbers have been thinning since dusk."

The beasts were most active at night – that had been obvious enough to her after the past few weeks. It was a little strange that they would strip any defenses on the keep – though, not so much so remembering how many of them had been scouring the hinterlands about. That those monsters had gotten organized enough to even take the keep and continue an occupation was distressing by itself, from what she could tell. But really, that was not her problem.

No. She had been led out there for a reason. And she doubted it was just to thin the numbers of Orcs and Ogres running amok in those lands. That keep was not Lord Firkraag's. But she hadn't really believed him much anyways. The Shadow Thieves and whoever else had grossly underestimated her. And that was exactly how she had meant it to be.

"He's in there," she said, eying the keep. The ranger didn't have to ask just who she meant. Somehow, she doubted Lord Firkraag was the real threat behind all that deception. The best way to find out what the Shadow Thieves wanted with her was to let that little charade play out on their terms as long as it could, though. And taking Firkraag might get her a few questions answered just that much more quickly.

"What about her?" Kivan gestured with his head back behind them some time later. Evelyn didn't bother to follow, knowing well enough what he meant.

"What _about_ her?" she countered, squinting towards the keep. "We can't take her with us. We leave her here."

The Elven girl was still knocked out cold, lying a little ways behind them. They had left her limp body with their packs down the slope, staking out that double watch on the Orcs and the knights both. That little confrontation of theirs was coming on quickly.

"What if the beasts find her?" he pressed, studying the movements of the knights himself. Evelyn only shook her head. He should have been more concerned with losing their few supplies than that useless girl.

"They'll be more preoccupied soon enough," she told him simply. And it wasn't as if that weren't true. There was a better chance any roving bands so close to the keep would be drawn to it at the sounds of battle long before they ever stumbled on that hapless girl. And the dark would hide her well too.

He gave her a sidelong glance, though, pointed, and meaningful. She sighed.

"We never thought this was safe," she explained to him, as if he had already forgotten. "She could have stayed in Athkatla." She _should_ have stayed in Athkatla. They had already wasted enough of themselves trying to let the doe-eyed Elf keep up. And there was far too many traps lingering around each corner to bother shielding that weakness. They would have all come crashing down.

The ranger eyed her for a few moments more. She felt it, and ignored him. She knew the words were as hollow as he did. But there wasn't much else for it just then either way. When had he become the girl's keeper anyways?

He looked away. But he didn't let it drop. She supposed it was her fault for ever bringing the squire knight at all. And again, for leaving him back at the camp. Not that he would have gone with them had they bothered to ask.

"You were like that once too," he uttered, locked on the knights buried in the treeline off the other way. She spared the Elven girl a glance.

"What? Unconscious?"

"Weak," he said, simply. "Fragile."

At that, her face darkened. It was noticeable, even in the oncoming night. But he didn't bother, still staring away. It was still several long moments for her, however.

"Let me know when they get to the keep," was all she said.

And the ranger merely nodded.

* * *

"Move, move, move!"

That harsh whisper broke through the bush. It hit the man like a whip, cracking in the night. And he leapt to his feet and bolted, flying hunched over and shoulder first out into the open.

The mud had all but dried. Rock and dirt crunched under foot. He held his breath as he skirted down, sprinting low through the dim light. A few, desperate seconds …

And he was crashing down beside the men already in position ahead.

One of those men slapped the newcomer on the shoulder before turning back to the fore. Another waited, watching above. The game went on, unabated. Hurry up, and wait. Sprint and pause …

Until the sentry moved on.

"Now."

One of them slipped up and over the rock face they had crouched behind, striding purposefully down and ahead toward the stone wall before them. The keep loomed above, torches burning bright atop the ramparts and casting their light out and down to the clear plain below. Those men had been leapfrogging from shallow cover to shallow cover. A bush. A chopped stump. A jutting rock – it didn't matter. Whatever kept them cloaked in night and hidden from sight. Now they were finally close enough for that one in their lead to finish the rest of the way boldly on foot.

The other men followed behind, keeping low as that one at their fore with the scar disfiguring his pale face pushed right up against the wall. The others crowded around him, crouched, breathing hard, and wary to the sentries waltzing overheard. Their leader fiddled with something along the stone while they suffered that fidgeting, anxious wait in the open. Another moment, and he was pushing the entire rock face inwards.

"Come on, come on!" one of them waved a hand and hissed back.

It didn't take the knights and de'Arnise's men long to scurry through the dark and inside the keep through the hidden sally door then. Over two dozen men in light armor, blades ready, snuck quietly right up to, through, and inside the belly of the beast. It was clever. And it was lucky. And, as she watched, Sir Firecam pushed his small attack force in without so much one of the Orcs above so much the wiser.

Then they were in.

Evelyn hit the ground in a crouch some ways behind them, turning it into a roll forward into the dirt. Kivan landed just beside her, light-footed, from the flat drop above. The last of the knights had already disappeared, and already that sally door was swinging shut. Fifteen yards, and she covered it in a dead sprint. It was only her own sheer luck that she got all the way there and slipped a hand inside to catch the thing without one of those sentries above taking notice. Kivan followed swiftly behind.

Not swiftly enough, though.

A shadow leapt on him from behind.

The ranger went down with a grunt, face-first into the dirt. Before Evelyn could more than glanced back his way, however, she heard a crossbow click in the darkness.

"Stay down," a voice growled low at the Elf. He managed to pull himself back around on his elbows to glare up at the other, gloved hand to his bashed head in the dark. But not much more than that.

Evelyn squinted at them there in the shadow of the wall.

"That was for back at the camp," the man snapped down at the ranger. He moved forward of a sudden, sending a swift boot into the Elf's side as well. "And that was for good measure," he added, following the other when he pulled himself back around.

Evelyn's eyes flashed wide.

"Anomen!" she hissed at the squire in the black, aghast. That bearded face was unmistakable, though. "What are you doing here?" If she could have managed, she would have run him over with a few of her feet as well right there.

He kept that bulky crossbow of his trained on the Elf, but glanced over at her still wedged between the sally door and the wall. As it was, all she could do was wonder if he was fast enough to stop the ranger with that thing in his hands. But she had seen it reload and fire faster than any other before. He would have had plenty of chances to miss.

"Following you, my lady," he told her, as if it were the simplest explanation in the world. Then he lowered his voice, angry and just a little upset.

"I don't know why you attacked Sir Firecam," he growled down at the ranger through his bearded face, "but I was not about to let you run off with her all alone …"

"Anomen!" she snapped at him, pulling him right back from leveling that crossbow with the other man's heart once more. At her voice, his eyes flew back up to hers.

"Go back to your knights, Anomen!" she told him, wide-eyed and fuming. It was as daunting as it could be with half her body stuck in the rock. But he only shook his head.

"I'm not leaving you alone with this savage, my lady," he assured her, face grim and determined. So much like another stupid fool she had once known. It was a wonder either of them had survived that long. And he probably would have killed the Elf right there if he could. She didn't bother to tell him that it was _her_ who had beat up his precious Sir Firecam, though.

"We don't have time for this!" she growled on at him, wedging the door back open with an irritated breath. The knights inside had long since moved on. Already, she could hear the start of a volley in the dark. Black arrows hissed out like silent death into the night.

"Either help me or leave, Anomen," she hissed back at him, "but _don't_ get in my way!"

She pushed the door all the way open.

Whatever was going on inside that thick mesh of bone and miserable brain Anomen pretended was a head took a few, long moments to work. When it was finally done, though, he let out a heavy breath.

The squire gestured with the tip of his crossbow for the Elf to get up. Kivan pulled himself back grudgingly to his feet, glaring all the while away from the man. And he just ignored him after that. He moved hurriedly back towards her, pushing past and in first through the door.

"He just snuck up on you?" she demanded, irritably, as he passed. The ranger only growled deep in his throat.

And muttered something in Elvish that sounded all too familiar.

The squire passed within too, and then she let the door finally shut.

* * *

The night was quiet.

Orcs trudged about the stone ramparts, the stench of dead, forgotten meat thick in the air. The keeps previous guard still lay scattered about where they had died, no few of them rotting as well as playing privy to whatever goblinoid wandered past needing some relief. Torches burned atop watch polls, and each sentry carried one in hand. But it was not enough to douse that putrid stink.

A few of the beasts milled about the courtyard, grunting in their guttural tongue. A goblin scampered past and one of the larger Orcs kicked it straight into a feculent pile. The others choked up laughing.

There were no more than a dozen patrolling the whole of the keep's walls – a handful at best. And they did little more than trudge listlessly up and down all night. It was quiet enough.

Sometime later, though, the wind picked up. And with it …

A smell.

One of the Orc sentries turned to the cleared flats below the walls. Snouted face peering, sniffing the air, it pushed a torch out over the battlements. And there was …

Movement.

The wind picked up again, hissing aloud in the night. This time, though, it didn't bring just the ghost of a scent with it over the walls. A black-hafted arrow bloomed in the Orc's shoulder. Steel managed to pierce all the way down to the bone. And that thing managed to topple all the way back off the wall in surprise.

The group of beasts in the courtyard glanced over at the sound of something crashing down headlong into an abandoned cart of refuse and splintering wood. Those old wheels popped off, clattering down. And one of the monsters started over to see just what it was.

It didn't get far, though.

Suddenly more of the beasts were crying out all atop the battlements. They started pitching over toward the ground after the first, full of black fletching.

Arrows were flying everywhere then. They rained down from above into the courtyard. Black shafts of death faded into the night only to reappear just before plunging into stone or Orc. The beasts went down everywhere, growling and bellowing aloud as bits of wood and metal pierced thick, green and gray skin and leather hide, loosing blood to mix with that of the already dead. They missed more often than they hit, and the beasts weren't unarmored. But there were few, and the black fletchings did their work.

Most of the sentries were dead by the time Sir Keldorn Firecam got there, catching two of the beasts at the top of the stone steps as he flew up towards the courtyard, Knight Hammlin hot on his heels. He gutted one while the younger man sliced up the throat of the other. Two more bodies tumbled back down the steps to the stone. And then both men were rushing out into the courtyard.

Orcs and Goblins scrabbled everywhere if they weren't already dead. Arrows pierced armor and flesh, pinning them to the ground. Order swordsmen and de'Arnise men-at-arms flew up into the courtyard behind Firecam, though, spilling out across the stone. They made short work of any that were left.

"Sir Firecam!"

Hammlin stuck his sword towards the walls, spinning the elder man back around. It was easy enough to see just what he was pointing at, even with his old eyes. One of the beasts was pulling itself along the wall, stuck through and full of arrows. It hobbled right toward one of those warning bells.

"The gate, Hammlin! The gate!" he bellowed at the other man, thrusting his own blade that way. Knight Tybald was already rounding up his men, clearing up the courtyard and making way for the other's team to push through.

Most of the abominations were dead, and it was just a dead sprint towards the gatehouse and its winch. Keldorn snatched a wayward soldier toting a crossbow up by the arm, not bothering to see just whose crest he wore, and stabbed a gloved finger toward that Orc on the walls.

"Bring it down!"

Tybald had the courtyard. Hammlin closed quickly on the gate, flying ahead of his own men into the house. Something still lived in there by the sudden bellowing roar that erupted as soon as the younger knight vanished within. His men ducked inside hastily after.

The poor boy with the crossbow fumbled for a bolt. He was one of de'Arnise's – hastily sticking the thing into place. Firecam waited behind him, watching the beast slowly closing on the thing above. The boy only just managed to get the weapon up and fire. It was a wonder, but he hit the thing.

Keldorn patted him on the shoulder, already turning back about. He didn't make it five steps before that bell started ringing, though. Glancing back, he just caught sight of the dying Orc hanging off the line. A few stout rings. Then it tumbled off the battlements. The boy looked terrified.

Firecam barely lost a stride.

"Knight Tybald," he called out, stalking away. Men flowed around him, doing their work. The younger knight hurried up at his side.

"Get your men and form a perimeter at the keep doors," he told the other, both striding toward the gate. "The beasts will be on us any moment. Hold them back."

"Aye, Sir Firecam," the younger man fell back and trotted away, barking orders. Keldorn spotted the one-eyed captain of de'Arnise's guard.

"Get your archers in here, d'Mortimet!" he called to the Cormyrian. "They won't do much good out there!"

He reached the gate and snatched up one of Hammlin's men lingering there. "What are you waiting for?" he shouted aloud at the lot of them, pushing through. "Get this gate open and that bridge down!"

He forced his way into the guardhouse, though, and came up short. A few men were crouched low there, bending over another. It didn't take him long to realize just who it was.

"Knight Hammlin?" he asked, holding at the entryway. One of the men crouched over the body glanced back at him. Then shook his head.

"Bloody monsters were waiting for us when we got in," the man uttered. "Took them both, good old Hammlin. But caught them both too."

Keldorn stared at the body of that man for a moment. Just a moment. But it lasted just long enough for the others.

He came back around.

"Get that bridge down," he ordered, though the bark had all but gone out of it. He didn't look at any of them for a moment as he stood there. Then he snatched another man up by the shoulder.

"Get out there once it's down," he told the boy, leveling him with a heavy eye. "Tell Knight Ajantis to move in here with all haste. I need that armor!" he shouted over his shoulder as he continued stalking away.

The other nodded, and jogged away.

The gate swung back up into stone. Slowly. He eyed the courtyard as it did, already hearing the bellowing cries of the garrison rousing to the silenced bells. If they were fortunate, all the Ogres had gone out on the hunt. Orcs and Goblins were trouble enough to deal with. But simpler. He hardly needed any more casualties than necessary that night.

They were slow, however, and the knights were faster. Even d'Mortimet managed to keep up, barking his mix of mercenaries and loyalists up onto the walls. They took position in a ring around the courtyard, kneeling down with bows and crossbows in hand. Tybald waited in the center, his ten men in the strongest formation they could manage holding the courtyard all by themselves. When the gatehouse was secure, Keldorn left a handful of Hammlin's men to guard it, and then moved to join the other.

"Hammlin?" Tybald flashed the elder knight an arched brow as he fell in with his smaller band beside him. The younger knight cast a glance back over his shoulder toward the gatehouse.

"He's had his fill of glory and honor for one night," was all Firecam said in turn.

"Really?" the other laughed, shaking his head. "I thought one could never get enough."

The old man's lips twitched in reply. But that was all.

And with that, both men fixed back on the keep doors ahead.

The guttural growls and roars and barking were getting closer, stomping down stairs and through halls past arrow slits and peering holes in stone. They had taken the time to fully gear themselves at least, or else had been more prepared than their counterparts holding the walls. It was a small matter, though. Time and distance were what would count for the next few minutes. Time, and distance.

Men around him clutch their swords and shields tighter, leather armor and bare elbows good for speed but not much for that defense. Not for long. Still, they would hold. He knew it in his bones.

And by the time those doors finally did begin to open, Firecam knew it in his heart too.

"Here they come ..." Tybald uttered low, but eager, under his breath.

And so they did.


	33. Chapter 2 The Way Out is Through

_**The Way Out is Through**_

"That newer girl they brought in last month was a cute one, wasn't she?"

A man in loose, slightly ragged robes, sat at a table, cutting into a small bit of fish with a dagger. He glanced up thoughtfully as he popped some of it into his mouth.

"What? The one with the rosy-pink hair? Hmm. _Was_, is right."

The man across from him grumbled through chewing teeth at work on his plate of sea-meat, hunched low and propped up on his elbows.

"I do believe I'll have to schedule some personal enchantment spells for that one …"

Both of them were parked at one of the tables in the vacant dining hall. Everyone else had gone about their late-night duties or else gone to bed. There wasn't much appeal, though, for two younger, minor mages spending any more time in the dormitories than necessary. So they remained there in the hall, sipping at the last of the mead brought up from the cellar.

At that dazed, whimsical look on the one man's face, however, the other nearly spit up on his hem.

"What?" the man choked on his cup, dribbling down his chin before he could help it. He slammed the thing down to the table in a huff. "Are you out of your bleedin', stink-rot mind?" he spluttered – more alcohol than indignation. "Don't muck yourself with these crazies, Bartlebe," he stuck a long, elegant finger at the other man. "The damned stuff rubs off on you!"

That other merely shook his head, clapping his face in a palm and laughing.

"I'll have no problems with certain parts rubbing on me …"

Again, the one man started to take a drink before pounding it back down in disgust.

"That's _repugnant_," he spat, wide-eyed. He was still all but hugging the table atop his flared elbows, face red and livid. "They hardly bathe those creatures but twice a week – if at all!"

But Bartlebe just kept on, smiling to himself as if the other was a fool. His friend merely twisted his mouth in revulsion, thinking about the very thought of it – and cringing visibly. "Might as well roll around in some cesspit with a fat harlot from the slums, you _stupid_ fool …"

"_Gods_, Ferdinand," the other merely laughed, partaking freely of the last of his drink. "You'd think they were disease-ridden animals by the way you tell it, old friend."

"They _are_," the man assured him grimly, almost threateningly. He pulled closer, dropping down to an almost vicious whisper.

"These … _beasts_," he continued, sticking a finger in the other man's face, "are sub-human, Bartlebe. _Deviants_," he said, explaining it all. "They are deadly. Remember that."

Ferdinand pulled back, his friend merely giving him a sporting look.

"A wonder they don't have them all just done away with," the dour man muttered, finally sipping some more at his mead. "They do the world no good rotting away here. _Stinking_ up the whole of the island."

Now it was Bartlebe's turn to lean forward.

"But then where would you practice your spells, old friend?" he cajoled the man with a wide grin. "It is a dangerous land we have to protect from mad mages."

"Don't remind me," the other grunted.

"Come," Bartlebe tipped over the large flagon between them, spilling some more of that amber fluid into their cups. "Drink, drink, drink!" he told the other. "Until tomorrow." And struck his drink against the other's in the air. That managed to bring a small smile to the man's face.

But it didn't last long.

"Now," Bartlebe slapped the table and started to rise a while later after they had finished off the rest of it. He teetered a little, but kept his feet, groaning as his arms stretched over his head.

"Why don't we head over to the western cell block and–"

The sound of the doors at the other end of the hall slamming back on their hinges cut him off. The standing man's head swung that way, ready for a senior mage or instructor to come stomping in, blazing his top off at them. What he saw instead, though, shut him up even faster.

"Hey, Bartlebe …," Ferdinand leaned back and barked a laugh, drunk now almost out of his own chair. He didn't even bother to seem surprised.

"It's yer lovely little cellar rat," the man said, smiling crookedly. "Come a' callin' …"

But the other mage, wide-eyed and far less shaky, just stared. Incredulous.

"What the bloody hell?" he all but screeched. His legs threatened to trip him right over that chair at his feet.

"How did she get free!"

The other man merely shrugged, as if he had expected an answer. A stupid grin was plastered on his useless face.

The standing one went first. Sitting there, still and all but teetering, he didn't even bother to reach for his magic. But he never really had the chance. Before he could more than stumble back, light flashed through the hall like the sun, exploding into his chest. And whatever was left of him went fluttering away in burned, tattered cloth toward the other end of the room.

His friend was next. That one managed to jerk backwards in surprise, sobering almost in an instant. His limbs flailed over his chair, though, and he fell into the table behind him. He didn't get much further before his whole body flew up into the air and slammed face-first into one of the walls. A sickening crunch cut off his shrill cry all too quickly.

Imoen was stalking free through the hall then. Tables slipped back, screeching against stone floor as she passed, flipping over and fluttering away. Chairs flew, forks and knives skittered by, and wood splintered into kindling. She moved right through the middle of that place, hands clenched tight at her sides and bleeding with every life they had crushed at the lift of a finger. A flick of the wrist. Spells and cantrips and arcane mutterings. The motions didn't matter. The words didn't matter. Everything burst free like caged thunderbolts, killing and killing and killing a hundred times over whatever the thought and spell was in her head.

Black death flowed through her veins, slipping around her arms like venomous adders. She could almost hear the hiss as murder boiled there atop her palms. It mirrored the whisper in the back of her head – silently coaxing her on. Telling her to kill. Kill. Kill – and be done with it. _Demanding_ it. Until she could all but see the life glowing everywhere around her …

And started snuffing it out.

They were there to die. They were_ meant_ to. That was what the voice said. And it wasn't hard to believe it. Not with everything she had seen. Not with everything they had done to her. What they would have kept doing – if she had let them.

But she didn't.

She moved through that place, tearing apart everything and everyone that got in her way. But there weren't enough. Escape was the most important thing. But there were _never_ enough …

Somewhere, deep down inside – she could hear herself crying.

* * *

Anomen took his mace in one hand, but only managed to get the haft up. He shoved the thing right into an Orc's snouted face.

The beast grunted, snarling aloud. Before the squire could do anything more, it was pulling him right up off his feet and slamming him aside into the wall. And Kivan was pulling the thing's throat out with that curved dagger.

Dropping to the ground, the bearded man snatched his crossbow back up before that beast even finished pitching over. Cranking furiously back, he sent bolts hissing into the group of them ahead as they charged right over. Two went down, and another tripped over those. A third came in at him with a blade swinging for his throat.

Evelyn caught that one in mid-swing, snapping its thick neck between her hands.

"Helm preserve us," the squire muttered as he pulled himself back to his feet, glancing around at that carnage. It wasn't the first group they had run into, and by the sound of it – it wouldn't be the last. But they could hardly take on the whole garrison by themselves.

He had his sword in one hand, checking the repeating crossbow load in the other, while the Elf leapt forward and went to task quickly finishing off those Orcs while they were still on the ground. It was butcher's work – cutting downed enemies' throats – and he, not one above it. But it was hard to hate him for it just then. It was no more than the monsters deserved.

And he hardly had more than a few seconds more before the next group of beasts was charging out of another passage into sight.

"_Move_!" the Elven man barked instantly, leaping away again from the bodies. Anomen was already snatching himself back around as Orcs in full armor drew a ragged mix of bows and crossbows and started taking hasty aim. If they were as surprised by them being there as they were at the endless wave of them flooding out of every hole, it didn't matter. The corridor was long. And they had the distance.

A few, desperate feet – and the squire was throwing himself headlong back toward the next bend in stone. The Elven hound was hardly a step behind him.

He slipped back around, thrusting out a hand to catch himself before his feet slid right out from under him on the greasy, Orc-blooded floor. Then he glanced back. And all but choked on his own tongue.

The raven-haired woman was still out there when those arrows and bolts came flying. The Elf – all but apoplectic for a moment as he joined in the squire's sudden horror as well for some reason. Fletching and steel snapped right at their faces, though, twisting them back behind cover before they could catch an eyeful of it. Anomen did slip then. His feet took him right down to his knees.

The other man was luckier. And he only wasted that brief instant before throwing himself back out into the corridor. The bearded squire hastily clawed his way back up, right behind him.

And came up just as fast as the Elf stopped dead in his tracks in front of him. He nearly bowled the man right over.

Neither really noticed, though.

No, that girl flew up right from the ground in front of the beasts then. Somehow, she was already on the other side of the corridor, not a one of those missiles caught in her flesh. And before the brutes could even reload, she was on top of them.

All of them.

Evelyn ran right up alongside one of those walls, pouncing over one of their hastily swung blades into the closest Orc and taking him straight down. Her whole body twisted over, and a dagger stuck straight up through the mouth on the next. A third, she spun right around and cut the hamstrings out from under. The fourth caught one of the blades she had taken from the assassin right through his throat.

It was over in less than a second.

Before Anomen had even thought to move again, the Elven man was. But all of the Orcs were already dead.

"_Helm_," he uttered uselessly, wide-eyed. And he could only stare, disbelieving. He had never seen anything move that fast, or kill that quickly. Never.

Except for that one night …

One of the beasts _was_ still alive, though. Apparently.

That last one, the raven-haired girl snatched right up by the arms and slammed back around into stone wall with a sharp cry. Her hand caught its throat, and she managed to lift the thing up just a little bit higher, choking the life right out of it.

That Elf caught up with her then. Just as she was trying to lift the thing up towards the ceiling like it were no more than a ragdoll. Her teeth were bared, seething. And if the thing weren't dead before, it certainly was now.

The other man caught her arm, and she snapped back around. For a moment, Anomen caught sight of her eyes past the Elf's shoulder. They were black. Dead black.

She struggled for the briefest moment. But then it ended. The dead Orc tumbled free, and she let her hands drop.

The Elven man shot a look back at the squire without another thought, already pulling the girl away.

"Keep moving!"

Anomen wasn't quite so quick to follow this time.

"Where are you going?" he finally managed to shout out to them as they took off again. They had long since given up any semblance of stealth, rushing headlong through that place. He had realized quickly enough, however, that they were not headed toward the courtyard and Sir Firecam's men fighting outside.

The raven-haired woman had taken the lead again, sprinting ahead of the Elf. But she didn't bother to answer him. Neither of them did.

And, for the girl's part, she didn't have much of a chance to anyways after that.

The second they rounded that next corner in the passage, something hit her right in the head, and she went straight down.

* * *

"Sir Firecam!"

Keldorn had just finished pulling free his favorite sword from a Hobgoblin's chest when someone shouted out his name. He twisted back around – but it was only to find another of the pig-faced creatures leaping towards him from behind. That one got the hard end of his pommel before he managed to pull steel around and cut the thing right in two.

He finally got back around, but whoever the man was who had called to him, he was face down and being pricked to pieces by a few Orcs some yards away. It took him a moment, but he recognized one of Hammlin's men in that chopped face.

A few steps took him that way. He snatched up one of the Orcs in his large hand by the scruff of the neck, spinning it around and shoving the tip of his sword through another. That one stuck for a fraction of a second too long, and he popped the steel free right through its ribcage. A third caught the swing under the jaw, and the fourth had the one in his hand thrown headlong into it before the old knight dived on them both, spitting two squirming bodies there on the bloody ground.

What was left of Hammlin's team fell in around him, holding their own as best they could and following his lead. Back to back in a loose ring, the Orcs and Goblins had a hard time at picking any one of them off alone. It was a well-practiced play at shielding one another with one hand, and striking at the other's attacker with the other. It worked. For the most part.

He glanced down, but that dead man was not one of his own. A gloved hand to the boy's side turned his bleeding corpse over onto his back for a better look. And he saw the butchered face of one of those he had left at the gatehouse.

Eyes up, he could see what had happened easily now. The beasts had broken through in the middle. Their lines were thin, and the abominations were clever enough to at least know where to hit them to finish that fight. Their numbers were too. A group of them had descended on the men at the gatehouse, and those were only a handful – fighting to keep the gates open.

"Tybald," he bellowed aloud across the courtyard.

One of those other men was across the way, spitting a goblin before taking an Orc's head with his back swing. His helm had come free, and he glanced up at the sound of that name. It took him a moment, but Keldorn recognized the younger knight under all that blood. His own men were faring better with their numbers around him.

"Looks like d'Mortimet's having a bit of trouble," he greeted the elder knight simply with a shout back, sticking his hand away toward the ramparts above. Another Goblin rushed in at his side, and he twisted around to cut the thing down at the shoulder.

Somehow, the beasts had gotten up to the walls. No. Down. Sir Firecam could see them now, leaping down from a part of the keep's interior itself. A few of those Orcs had pounced down on the archers and gutted them before any had been the wiser. He could already see the Cormyrian Captain flying up the stairs to join them, though.

"They'll flank us," the younger man called over, almost casually. An Orc stumbled into the old man from one side, and Keldorn just gave him a rough push right back toward the others.

"Fall back to the gates," he shouted to the other knight, already turning away. His own men were pulling in tight around him – down to three now.

"Close ranks!" Tybald bellowed aloud, casting about. Men took up to cry in spurts about him, calling out breathily to anyone nearby. The handful that was left of that small force started to retreat in on each other, closing. And the beasts started to surround them on all sides.

"Keep on me," Sir Firecam told the others around him, already coming about. "Hold my flanks and prepare to charge."

A few bobbed heads and heavy breaths were all he got in reply as they drew back from the beasts. There was a lull for a moment in their attack on his small group. Just enough to pull them around.

The volleys that had seen their damage done in that first rush of beasts petered out as de'Arnise's guards started fighting tooth and nail and dagger with the Orcs leaping down from above. D'Mortimet flew into them with a blade and dagger drawn, angry scar tearing up his face. But there was nothing for it now. The gates were more important.

"Steady," the old knight uttered low as he started pushing back in reverse with those three in tow. They fanned out to either side of him, stepping light and picking their targets. That two-handed blade slapped down in both his hands, one cradling it firmly on the ricasso, ready to half-sword that rush. He kept his eyes ahead toward that group ahead, picking up speed.

A dozen Orcs and Goblins were left at the gatehouse by the time they closed within a dozen yards – only two of his men there still standing. And by then they were in a dead charge. No words. No foolhardy cries. Just pounding feet and spearheading blades. A few long, heavy moments – and they had covered that distance.

They bowled right into the lot of them from behind. And not a one had bothered to see them coming.

It was bloody work cutting through Orc flesh and steel blade and armor and bone, however, even with that little surprise. Holy blade thrusting hard right through their middle, Keldorn plunged deep into the ragged formation, catching two on the steel and knocking the others aside. It took a few moments to put himself between the beasts and the gatehouse, and free the refuse from his sword. And by then, he was alone. Both of the men left guarding it were already dead, and he didn't waste a moment before pushing right along inside. A goblin was on the winch, snatching for the levers. His boot sent it swiftly sailing back across the room.

He stopped the chains dead in their tracks with his sword. The little devil had managed to cut something loose and the whole gate was coming down loudly just beyond the wall. That steel had cut through Orc and armor alike, though. It was far more durable than those rusting chain links. He held the gate up.

And when he came back around, it was only with that long knife he had belted at his waist in hand. A few of the Orcs had followed him in, heavy axes and clubs and maces staring at him across the cramped room, only his leather armor keeping his old bones and blood warm. He wasn't sure if any of the other three had made it with him, but he certainly couldn't see them then. He was alone.

Well, not quite. He still had that dagger.

And the first thing that loyal companion did was bury itself deep in the first beast to leap on top of him.


	34. Chapter 2 Harbinger

_**Harbinger**_

Anomen leapt right over the fallen girl without a second thought.

He supposed he should have caught himself for a moment. Perhaps he should have even bothered to recognize that the Elven man had done much the same a scant few seconds before him. Or that he had suffered the same fate as the raven-haired woman on the ground – flying so suddenly back into the wall opposite that turn. Or maybe he should have just bothered to pull his sword into hand before that crossbow.

As it was, he did none of that. At least, not before he found himself staring right up into the face of a Troll.

Or, more truthfully – found himself snatched up by a Troll.

The thing didn't hesitate before throwing the whole of its nine-foot, sagging hulk into swinging the squire over into the stone wall beside him. At first, he hardly knew just what had happened, wind knocked clean out of him and black spots shining in his eyes. A sudden numbness spread throughout his body, light mail only blunting a little – if any – of that blow. He choked out, seething now. And he was still staring up at that Troll.

The beast was geared up all in stiff, leather plates. Spaulders crested atop slouched shoulders. It was hard to see much, though. Hooked, motley green nose pressed close in his face, the thing let its jagged-toothed maw fall open, growling all to eagerly. That breath almost put him right out.

He had dropped his weapons. Not that it mattered. Another few seconds and he felt like he was the Orc on the wrong end of the raven-haired woman's grip from before, eyes flashing wide as the Troll slide him up the wall to the sound of scraping leather and chain links. Both his gauntleted hands snatched on the thing's grip on his coat, massive gray fist grinding down to flesh.

It lifted him all the way up to the ceiling, just above its thick, elongated head. Then it tossed him clear down the other side of the hall.

Breath returned to him only to come screaming back out again as he sailed away like a featherweight. Somehow, he managed to tuck his neck in before he hit the far wall with his back, little good that it did. He tumbled over to the ground in a heap. And by then, his heart was thundering in his ears.

Heavy footfalls. Rock. And dust. Steel sliding free.

It was some time before he felt like he could breathe again.

Hands crawling out ahead of him, it was an effort to make his lungs work lying there on his stomach. And it was even harder to pull his bearded head up from the ground enough to see. It twisted onto its side.

Massive, green-and-black toed feet were stomping slowly his way. Eyes blinking languidly half-open and close, he managed to catch sight of the floor all but shaking around him. A heavy sword blade dipped into view, dragging across stone and setting it to pops of flashing sparks.

His hand started to creep its way back around for his dagger.

Eventually, the thing stopped in front of him. And looked down at him from high above. He pulled his eyes agonizingly up to meet its gaze, lingering – briefly – on that massive blade in its hands.

It grunted. And he waited for that blow.

But it didn't come. Instead, all at once, heavy leather plating over distended green-gray, rubbery flesh spun instantly back around. He could just see an arrow jutting out of the back of its thick neck. A bellowing roar erupted the other way in turn. Then it took off in a wild charge of ponderous limbs, rocking the ground everywhere beneath.

The Elven man was kneeling at the other end of that passage, bow in hand. He managed another arrow or two before the thing was on him. But it didn't even slow down. It barreled headlong into him with its entire body, not even bothering with that massive blade. The sword fluttered away behind it, one shoulder drooped even lower.

Somehow, the Elf managed to throw himself aside. He might have turned it into a roll, but he was not so strong as that after the first savage blow the squire had seen the thing give him. As Anomen watched in half a daze, the man stumbled into the ground, threw himself back up to teetering feet behind the beast as it slammed full force into the wall, and staggered away.

Dust and bits of rock rained down from the ceiling, pelting the squire in the back. That Troll pulled itself free from the wall a few moments later, leaving a gaping dent in its wake. It shook itself all over, leather plates bristling. Then it rounded back on the Elf.

Kivan didn't get far before the thing was bearing down on him again. The only warning the Elf had were its heavy footsteps and another jagged-toothed snarl as it thrust that massive blade right in at his back. He managed to awkwardly duck beneath the blow, coming about. A massive arm followed steel a second later, however, swinging wide. The man plunged face-first ahead into the stone, letting the limb smash free more rock from the wall.

Anomen had climbed back unsteadily to his feet by the time the beast caught up with the Elf again, blinking sluggishly to clear his head. He stumbled a few steps, and so did the other man, in opposite directions. The Troll caught Kivan in one mighty hand by the back even as Anomen tugged his dagger free. But in the next moment, the Elf was hurtling head first toward him the rest of the way down the corridor. He hit the bearded man hard in the stomach, and they both went back down.

It didn't take long for the Troll to catch up with them then. Still, it took its time. Anomen was on his back, somehow still trying to pull himself back up. Thoughts and eyes flying every which way at once, he was _still_ trying to sit himself back up. He didn't know how. He couldn't think why. And when he finally did, the beast was there waiting for him. Its thick, sinewy fingers closed tight around his coat again. And chucked him far away from the Elf.

He hit the ground, rolling – sliding along stone. Every limb failed him all at once, flailing as that throw carried him clear all the way back across the hall. He struck something on the floor, and twisted up and over.

This time, the side of his head cracked hard against the wall.

Everything went black for a few seconds. An eternity. And he lay there on the ground on his side wedged against the wall, broken all over. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. Somehow, though, his eyes stayed open. It was just enough to watch that thing bend down its massive bulk to the Elf so far away for the kill.

Whatever he had hit on his way along the floor, it was lying there in the shape of a young woman just beside him. He fixed on that for a moment, thinking she must have been someone he knew. It was a hollow thought. Detached. He felt like he was floating.

Then those eyes snapped open.

If he had thought the girl dead, he wasn't so sure that he was wrong. Her body snapped upright like a corpse come back to life of a sudden, jerking back to some un-life. He might have been horrified, but it was hard to do more than stare. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he knew how impossibly weak and vulnerable he was lying there uncaring or able to move on his side. And couldn't seem to make himself care.

Those eyes turned to him. Briefly. And they were black.

He was dead. That was certain enough by the way those eyes looked at him. He could feel the being ebbing out of him at their touch – drinking in his lifeblood right out through the vein. He had thought Helm might be there to meet him. Not that demon.

He couldn't think. And he couldn't move. But that was all there was to him now.

But then those eyes moved on.

And he could breathe again. That weight fell off him, feeling like a tombstone suddenly pulled clean off his corpse. He could all but feel the stone scraping along bare flesh. And then he was left to watch as the raven-haired woman climbed back to her feet.

Time was standing still just for her. The motions were ponderous – languid. There was the feel of age and the forces of nature about them. Somewhere, far beyond, that Elf was bellowing aloud as the Trolls jaws closed down on an arm with a dagger at its neck.

The girl's head snapped that way of a sudden. And she started walking. Anomen wasn't sure, but he could swear he saw the walls start to bend right around her.

Stone cracked. The sound of it was dull, like a throbbing bell somewhere far underground. Tiny rivulets coursed along rock to either side as Evelyn moved away. She closed like inexorable death on that beast holding the Elf. Her whole body seemed to flash into shadow, briefly, and back out again.

Kivan tumbled down to one side. The Troll let him go, bleeding into the floor. It pulled its massive blade into hand instead, bringing the thing about to thrust deep into the hapless man's body. Broad tip rested down on his chest, flipping him onto his back. End to end, it reached almost to his shoulders. And the Troll managed a toothy grin.

And then …

… It just wasn't there anymore.

Anomen blinked.

A chunk of rock hit him on the side of the head, tumbling down from above. He grunted, feeling like his world abruptly shifted back into real time as that sharp pain drew blood down his temple. His face winced, and he coughed. A hand reached out and started to pull the rest of him back up from the stone.

He was awake. He didn't know how long he had been out. Seconds. Minutes. It didn't matter. He was clawing his way back to his feet, trying to cradle his whole bruised and battered body all at once. Short, staggered breaths. It was a miracle that he could even stand.

He found his sword lying on the stone along the way. Numb fingers pulled it up with him. Crossbow too. Limping forward, he managed to sling the thing back over an aching shoulder, thank Helm – or whoever had seen him through.

It took him a while, but he pushed his way down the corridor, not sure just where he meant to go at first. The answer seemed clear enough, though. After a moment. The whole place looked like the aftermath of a battle between fifteen men, there was so much scattered gore and broken rock. He was could only the Elf, though, lying on the ground and shaking as he clutch a hand to one arm, desperate to hold his own blood in. No one else. Just a huge trail of black blood washing away in a trail around the next corner.

He hobbled along, pausing only briefly to glance down at the Elf as he passed. The man returned the look, teeth bared through his pain. He said nothing, though, and the squire moved on. Just following that trail.

He found a door. Twin, great wooden doors. The main chamber of the keep, he knew. His faltering steps slopped through the black liquid painting the floor, pushing a hand to one of those heavy doors still creaking on its hinges. He forced out a ragged breath, and shoved it inward. He was stumbling out into an audience hall then.

The whole place was a mess. Dead bodies lay everywhere – long dead, and stinking. Murals fell broken to the floor, stone rubble strewn all over cracked, priceless marble. Blood splashed the walls. Torches stood burned out and lifeless, shadows seeping in their wake. Blades and armor with nothing but severed bones and rotting corpses to keep them. It was one, large, open grave.

There was only one man in the room – sitting atop the great, stone chair at the far end. Anomen stared at him for a moment. Then he realized, with a start, Evelyn standing only a few steps in front of him.

She didn't move. Neither did that man. There was no sign of the Troll, but the black blood was smeared thick all over her hands from what he could see. The trail lead up to and ended there – her. And the room was dark – quiet, and still. He watched, but … she just stood there.

Anomen fixed on the man, though, after a moment more. And then he started forward.

Hand tensing around that blade, he paused as he came up at the girl's side. She was still staring ahead. He looked at her, briefly. Then swallowed down the bile in his throat.

"My lady?" he croaked with a shaky breath. His heart still rattled like it had broken free inside his chest. Everything hurt, and it was hard to pin down exactly what wasn't broken yet. But the other didn't even open her mouth.

"Evelyn."

He tried her name. But there was no answer. He stared at her, but she stared ahead. Eventually, he followed her back to that man sitting in his chair.

The squire started shambling forward again. Slowly. He lifted his sword in hand, gritting his teeth against the strain. It was an eternity before he could close the space between them, and the other man hadn't moved the whole way. When he finally got close enough, he realized why.

Anomen stopped, abruptly. And he really couldn't help it when he lost his grip and the sword clattered down from his hand against the stone. He just fell back a step. It was as far as he got.

"D-Duke de'Arnise," he breathed, staring at the seated man. Aghast.

Then he fell down to a knee.

"He's dead," he said aloud to no one, whispering harshly in the dark. The girl certainly wasn't listening. "Burned to ash …"

But that charred corpse was unmistakable. The clothes, the dress – even through the faded cinders and black soot. A skull leered past flaking char, jaw hanging wide and empty sockets staring at nothing. Anomen swallowed again.

Then something roared. Something loud. Something terrible. It shook him right down to his bones there alone in the dark.

Evelyn, on the other side of the chamber, moved at that. She lifted her head. And started staring away.

Then, she finally opened her mouth.

"He's here."

* * *

Snouted face breathing down his neck, Keldorn Firecam just barely managed to get his knife in between himself and that Orc as it pressed him flat back against the wall. There were three of them piled on him, two trying to work their blades in with one hand each as the other four between the beasts held him still. The one on top of him snarled right in the old man's face, tusked jaw wide and eager. He sliced up its throat.

Not for the first time that night, Orc blood splashed into his beard. The one beast let loose a warbling cry like a stuck pig, stumbling back. Then he had enough room to slam a gloved fist hard into the face of another, crunching down on its flat nose. The third slipped its blade past his middle, biting through leather into skin. A boot crushed its knee, and the back of his elbow blunted its bony skull.

He strode out of the gatehouse then, back into the fight. Or, he would have, had there been one. But he was alone when he finally came back to the courtyard – his last few men lying broken and dead on the ground. A dozen more Orcs and Goblins were his only welcome.

"Tybald," he growled under his breath, eyes flashing amongst those beasts. The man was still far beyond them, though, fighting for his life amidst the last of his team – surrounded. They were valiant, and they took their toll in dead left in their wake, stinking blood everywhere all over the ground. But there was no end to those numbers. At least none that he could see yet. And they were all but worn out. He couldn't even _see_ d'Mortimet anymore.

Sir Firecam bent over and snatched up one of those Orc axes that lay scattered everywhere about. Another, he caught up in his left hand. He hefted both, watching as that little band descended on him leisurely too now. He was easily outnumbered. But they just couldn't leave his blood-earned gate well enough alone.

He was tired, so he let the beasts come to him. Swinging their own axes eagerly with roaring cries. And come they did, howling at him from every way they could manage all at once. He might have even been flattered by so many thinking to kill him all together. Really, though, it had grown just a little irritating.

He waited, blood and breath thundering in his ears. Until the first caught up with him.

And that one got an axe cleaved through the side of its broad skull. It was the only one, though. He spun around for the next, but someone else beat him to it.

A crossbow bolt punched through the throat of the Orc right in front of him. And he stopped in mid swing. Glancing over in surprise, it was only to be greeted by a wall of plate and steel suddenly rushing toward him.

He ducked out of the way. That wall carried through, forming into dozens of men in full armor, blades and hammers and polearms abruptly tearing into the mass of Orcs and Goblins still standing, rolling them over like a surging tide. That Orcish armor didn't seem so thick now. They died in droves before they could even bring most of their weapons to bear that way. A few wayward axes and maces clattered on plated mail armor, but they bounced and slid off, leaving a knight free to cut greasy flesh open wide.

Keldorn turned about, and it was only to see Ajantis reloading a crossbow in his own thick plate and striding up to greet him. It was hard not to smile broadly at the man.

"You're late, Knight Ilvastarr," he said instead, tossing those axes away. He caught sight of that rolling mass of holy metal plowing its way toward what was left of Tybald and his men, clearing the field. Their numbers had seemed endless, but they gave way quickly enough. They must have drawn every last beast from the keep down into that bloody hole they'd made.

"My fault, Sir Firecam," the younger knight answered evenly back, picking a target and letting that crossbow loose into a stray Orc. He turned back to the old man. "It won't happen again."

Keldorn didn't bother to say anything at that. He hid his relief by turning about and snatching free his heavy blade from the gate mechanism again. The portcullis clattered down loudly to the stone below when he came back to the other. None of those monsters were getting out of that place alive.

And there wasn't much for it then, but to watch that bloody work suddenly turn simple and tedious rather than bloodthirsty and desperate. Ajantis' men began clearing the courtyard up swiftly where his lightly armored strike teams could not. Those Orcs had been just as worn down as the few surviving knights, and their losses had been far greater. Brute strength did them little against superior training and tactics. But it had taken its toll.

It was always fascinating to see that abrupt shift, however. Even the bloodiest, most gruesome and pitched struggle turned aside in a single instant. And over almost just as quickly. It was a difficult thing to watch sometimes. But he was more than pleased when he managed to keep those twists and turns in his favor. It was a credit to the dead, and one of the only truly useful ones he could make.

He tried to ignore his fallen for a little bit longer as he stood there, but it was always hard. And he had lost more than he could have hoped that night. When he was sure he had caught enough of his breath and composure again, he opened his mouth once more.

"I want this courtyard clean of any beast still living within the next five minutes, Knight Ilvastarr," he started to give the younger man his orders. "Prepare to move into the keep and make a sweep there as well. This whole keep will be cleared by sunrise."

The other nodded his head simply enough. But Sir Firecam was already thinking well ahead to the coming days.

"And I want a guard detail stationed here at all times," he gestured to the gatehouse behind him with an irritated glance for what that had already cost his men. He kept it hidden from the other. "At least until it's safe enough to find Lady de'Arnise and–"

But whatever the last of that order was to be, the younger knight never got a chance to hear it. Instead, a thundering roar broke over from above, drowning the old man out. Sir Firecam's words were swallowed right up into the black of night.

Ajantis twisted back around, looking up. But Keldorn didn't.. He didn't have to. Instead, he just sank into black thoughts, staring straight ahead. It was one of the worst mistakes against his command and responsibility that he could make.

He froze.

And when that bellowing call inevitably came again …

He just squeezed his eyes shut.


	35. Chapter 2 Inferno

_**Inferno**_

The old man snatched Ajantis back to reality with a heavy hand to his plated shoulder.

"Get your men out of the courtyard," he growled at the younger knight, shoving him headlong out into it.

"_Now_!"

He followed him right out, not bothering to wait even one more second.

"Cover! Find cover!" Sir Firecam was yelling at those men still scattered about in droves, all but finished with the Orcs. He pushed his way past one pair, shoving aside another. "Into the keep!" he all but threw them ahead toward the bloody doors.

That thunderous cry sounded above. A heavy flap of leathery wings, and wind beating the air. He ignored it, snatching any blind fool staring up at the black sky and tossing him bodily on his way towards some small measure of safety.

"Tybald!" he snapped, seeing the man covered in Orc blood and grimacing at the slivered moon as it suddenly went black. Keldorn only caught his arm in a vice of iron.

"You get every one of these men you can and regroup inside the keep," he ordered the other through his teeth. Then just as quickly moved on. "Get out of the open!"

The other knight started away instantly, shouting himself. It did so little good.

They were too slow. Everywhere he saw them taking their time, not realizing just what was coming down atop them. Staring up in wonder, stumbling away. Full-plated knights and surviving men in leather alike. They heard the horrible shriek, though. And he could see their blood run cold.

"MOVE!"

He stabbed a finger away, barking at each and every last one he saw. He saw that de'Arnise boy who had killed the Orc atop the battlements with his crossbow earlier, stumbling about without a clear thought for survival in his foolish head. It was a wonder the youth had even managed to survive.

That skinny little child fell over on himself at the sight of the old knight rushing his way, face red and livid. Keldorn didn't waste a moment before hauling him bodily right back up from the ground.

"Get out of here, boy!" he snarled at him, slapping a hand to the crested helm atop his head. The other made some sort of mewling sound, all but tumbling over again at the force of the blow. And Keldorn just grabbed a fistful of his leather jerkin, dragging him along.

Men shouted. That roar was back, louder than ever. And Sir Firecam came spinning back around. The sight he saw then was so much worse than the one left like a burning scar inside his head. All those years. And he had never forgotten. But the real thing …

Well, it was somehow always so much worse.

A huge shape loomed up above the walls, swooping down around the parapets. All tooth and claw and scaled, serpentine death. A few of his men were up atop those ramparts. One vanished in a blaze of fire. Another was snatched up, screaming into the night. The third was the luckiest. He leapt down into the courtyard. The fall killed him.

Sir Firecam gritted his teeth, coming back around.

"Come on, boy!" he started to snap again at the one in his hand, but stopped. When he saw that helm having fallen free and the long, auburn hair flowing free, he nearly swallowed his tongue.

Nalia de'Arnise was staring up at him through ragged eyes full of fear.

He froze. For a moment. Then he squeezed her arm twice as hard, baring his teeth.

"You stupid girl!" he snarled at her. "What have you done?"

She never got the chance to answer him. Or rather, he never got the chance to hear whatever she might have said.

Instead, all the warning he had was the feel of heat at his back before the world suddenly filled bright with flame and sent him hurtling into the air.

He just managed to snatch that girl tight to his chest before losing her and slamming his head hard into stone.

* * *

Imoen doubled over on her knees with her face in the ground. She could already feel herself convulsing, shaking all over as her stomach worked its way eagerly up into her throat. She choked, and she retched, and that black bile poured out over her tongue like acid and evil. It bubbled and melted into the stone beneath her.

"Oh," she coughed, hacking black venom all over her hands, "_gods_–"

And couldn't stop when the vile stuff started to mix with her own blood.

Something stabbed in inside her skull. She winced, the world swallowed up as each muscle in her face suddenly squeezed. Every last sound faded quickly away, and she was left with only a sharp ringing through the bone.

A moment later, and she was jerked back up to her feet.

Bodies lay scattered around her, torn apart. She could see them. And she could remember ripping into flesh with unseen hands, snatching the life right out. She remembered it feeling good in her hands – remembered the taste of a dead soul on her tongue. She remembered murdering each and every last one. And enjoying it.

"_No_."

She hissed through clenched teeth, twisting her head aside.

That whisper was back, but it wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a cacophony of voices, all scraping down the insides of her skull and out the backs of her eyes. She scrubbed her blood-stained palms into them, as much to rip them out as to stop seeing that black death all around her. It was no use, though. Soon they were all coming at her in a roar.

She cried out.

A leg jerked forward, carrying her deeper into that bloodbath. She bared her teeth, tears burning at her eyes. And shook her head. Another, and she was all but bawling aloud on her feet. That wretched sound of it echoed, bouncing off the dead walls like ghosts in the darkness.

Another step. And another.

And another.

And another.

"_NO_!"

She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Everything around her flared of a sudden, catching fire and flying away all the same. Corpses – mages in bleeding, tattered robes, flailed into the air in bits and pieces, painting the walls before evaporating into nothingness. And those walls started to come apart too. The whole world shook right around her.

And then it stopped.

She almost collapsed again. Rock sifted down, crumbling quietly into the floor. She was left alone in the darkness, all the lights in that corridor snuffed out. There was just her heavy, frantic breathing, and the chill of the grave over her skin. She stood there staring through the ground for some time.

Her hands were leaking. She glanced down, flipping one over, and could just make out the flesh through tears and shadow. It wasn't blood, though. Not this time. More of that evil dripped out of them, painting her fingers black. She sobbed, glaring at them through the murk.

Somehow, she didn't think she was herself anymore.

That thought stuck in her head longer than anything. Hyperventilating. Choking on her own skin. It was a while before she dared take any steps forward on her own. Every sound was another whisper. Every breath of air was that blackness waiting to descend on her again and swallow her up. Fill her up like a puppet, and kill. Kill. Kill.

She was too afraid to remember how close she was to escaping. She wasn't so sure she should anymore. But it wasn't up to her. She couldn't stay.

Stairs climbed away above. She stumbled into them, pitching over before she could catch herself. Shaking, her hands found wooden steps, smearing them with black blood and bringing back splinters that she couldn't feel. Trembling, she started to push herself up them on all fours like some kind of animal.

It was an eternity before she reached the top. Light blossomed there like a beacon, too bright for her to see. She shielded her eyes with a black hand, climbing back out from the depths of the Hells. And when she could see again …

She was in another large room.

Her bloody hands pulled her up against the wall. It was an effort, she felt so weak and depleted now. But she did it. Through clenched teeth and flaring nerves, she did it. She stood up in that room and felt the–

IMOEN.

The world suddenly heaved. She flew back off her feet with a shrill cry, choking on her own tongue. Her head exploded. Her blood seethed. Muscle and bone and flesh conspired together to destroy her. And everything seemed to just come apart everywhere all at once.

She flailed. It was useless, but she clawed at her own head, desperate to have it off. She screamed. Wild, and frenzied. She was vaguely aware of people coming to find her, following that trail of wailing anguish she left so viciously to guide the way. And it wasn't long before she felt more spells, clamping down on her all over to the sound of desperate, shouting voices, wrestling her back to the ground.

That was what finally decided it.

And when she eventually got back to her feet, they were gone.

They were all gone.

* * *

Leathery wings beat the air. A moment later, heavy claws clacked down along stone. They clicked against cracked rock, stepping forward. Then they melted into hard leather and boot. They strode forward quickly across the courtyard grounds.

There was a man there then, all in fine scroll and lace and flowing, blood-red cloak. A touch of gray wisping through his fine, red hair, he looked around to the dead bodies that littered that place. Orcs and men, blood and death, roasted flesh and charred, dead meat. There were all too many of those plated warriors who had fried alive within their very own shells. And he smiled at the thought.

But he did manage to find one _alive_ …

The red-haired man kept on walking, not pausing as he let a hand fall down and snatch that full-armored knight by the arm. The other cried out suddenly as he was wrenched aside, dragged along stone by the full weight of his metal plates. When the man in lace grew bored of that, he swung the knight up right in front of him.

The bloody paladin was half-dead, skull cracked and one eye swollen shut. The man in red held him firm, though, squeezing tight until he cried out again and that one eye fixed on him. His own were heavy, and intent.

"Where is your leader?" he asked – too politely at first. The other only gritted his teeth, bleeding down the side of his face onto the red-haired man's hands.

And he twisted some of that metal back into the man's chest.

He was rewarded with a satisfying yell, hoarse and faltering. He smiled.

"Now?" he tried again. But again, the man did little more than continue dying in his finely-wrought, silken hands. "No?" He shook his head for the other.

Then he sighed.

"Knights of the Most _Noble_ Order of the Radiant Heart," he intoned slowly, letting one his elegant hands fall free. He put it into the air between them with a grin, watching the warrior's eye follow it slowly.

"Let's see just how radiant that heart of yours is, shall we?"

His hand filled with flame, burning white-hot and ravenous. He stuck it right into the man's chest. He even had a few seconds to scream before it had burned a hole all the way through armor and flesh and bone to wither away that organ underneath.

When he was done, he cast the dead man aside.

The courtyard was unmercifully alive with the groans of the dead and crack of flames, still. The human knights lay scattered everywhere about amidst the fires. Some burned. Others didn't. But they were all going to die. Sooner or later.

So he could take his time.

"Firkraag!"

Someone shouted out his name as he turned away, that grin plastered across his smooth face. It broadened all the more at that sight he came about to then, though. A surprise. But a more than pleasant one at that.

"Dear little Nalia," he smiled slowly at the girl pulling herself free of some rubble and burning timber from the blasted battlements above. She staggered out of the flames, clutching a bleeding hand to her side. "That truly is fetching war dress for you," he said lightly. "I am certain that your father would joyously approve."

There was no preamble. Not from her. A second later, and she was flinging some paltry magic right at his face.

Firkraag twisted aside easily, laughing with a sporting look as the little blast of energy whistled past his ear. He glanced back at the girl.

"Now, dear, is that any way to treat your guests?"

She just lit up and flung another one at him.

"Get out of my home!"

Again, he leaned away, letting the charming little spell hiss away beyond him. It really was quite endearing, to say the least.

"Of course, little de'Arnise," he cracked a smile that did not dare touch his eyes. "But not without some consolation first …"

She surprised him, though. Just as he was straightening back up, she shouted something truly arcane and let loose a mighty blast of fire right on top of him.

The courtyard where Lord Jierdan Firkraag had stood exploded into flame and thunder. It surged back away and around in a maelstrom, whipping every which way all at once. Stone chunks flew into the air, rippling against the broken keep and its walls, pitting the blasted rock. And smoke shot up all around, scattering dust into the night sky. A few, fiery moments, and it started to slowly sift back down.

Nalia de'Arnise stared into that pocket of dying flame as it subsided, eyes darting back and forth across the puffing black smoke the poured out. There was no sign of Lord Firkraag, though. No sight or sound or smell but the burning of ash and rock. She held her breath.

Then a hand reached right out in front of her face and choked her from it.

She was lifting back up into the air, eyes wide and hands snatching desperately for that one tight about her throat. A familiar, red-haired face emerged from the dying blaze and smoke, staring her hard in the eye. It was just a little irritated at that.

"And just what was that supposed to do, little bird?" Firkraag snarled up at her, still managing to look quite amused. It was lost on her as she flailed about in his grasp.

"I have survived a thousand times your wretched existence!" he laughed. "Crushed the lives out of heroes and tyrants so old time has already forgotten their names!" And swung her around. "Do you think this was some great victory over you and your lands?" he bellowed triumphantly.

"This was just sport!"

He put her feet back down on the ground and stared at her for a moment, waiting for some kind of answer. Her mouth was flung open, desperately trying to work air into her feeble lungs. It was the only answer he got.

"Hm," he made a pleased sound softly in his throat. "Goodbye, little bird."

And threw her away.

Something else came to mind then. He heard it, and turned back around. That smile across his face grew all the wider.

"And here I was believing that I would have to take the time to hunt you down through these dreadful ruins myself."

That raven-haired woman was standing there. Alone. Silhouetted in one of the dark doorways untouched by his flames across the courtyard. Staring at him. She said not a word. But that was fine with him.

"I had wondered if you would be so kind as to accept my little … invitation."

She had not moved. If he were anything else, he might have wondered if he weren't seeing things, so like a shadow did the girl seem reflected there in the low light. None of it touched her ephemeral form.

"Really, matters are working out quite how I had hoped they would," he continued aloud, regaling himself as much as her. "A fair bit of gold to purchase your head in the matter, but those Shadow Thieves _are_ discreet. By now everything has already been well prepared on their end back in Athkatla."

He studied her for a moment, cocking his head ever so slightly. But she was just a smudge of black against the broken keep behind. Even his eyes gave him a little trouble, and they never did that.

"You know, I _had_ toyed with the thought of killing you," the red-haired man told her with a sigh, arching an imperious brow. There was always some fun to measured theatrics with such short-lived and fright-filled creatures. "But I think things will progress far more interestingly forcing you to live. At least," he added with an emerald flash of his eyes, "as long as you can manage after tonight.

"You see, I owe your father a little something for some trouble he gave me years ago now," he kept on. The game was enjoyable, and he was more than happy to see it through to its proper end himself. "A tedious little confrontation that left me quite agitated at the result. Well," he tipped his head slightly to one side in good sport, "seeing as the little old man finally found his way to a grave on his own, I just had to settle with second choice," he all but apologized for that inconvenience to himself. "No doubt, wherever he is, he is looking down on this now and _seething_ …"

If it wasn't his imagination – and it wasn't – that stupid girl was still standing there as still as stone. Shock, or terror, he mused. Maybe. But there were _always_ so many more visible signs. No, she certainly had more the feel of a corpse just then. Curious enough.

"But I've grown bored with the thought of murdering his only kin," he sighed, "as I said. So I will give you the chance to run. The chance to live," he waved a hand indifferently aside. "The chance to make whatever else you will of the pitiful little existence I've left to you now."

He waited for her to move. To say something. To run, like she should have done if she had any sense left in her. A pity, but she did not. And oh so very boring by then.

He shook his head, sighing. But she was not the only one still alive by the sound of, for whatever it was worth. His head snapped around at the sound of another.

"_Nalia_," an old man was hissing quietly at that de'Arnise girl where Firkraag had tossed her aside. He tried to shake the young woman awake. But she did not move.

"How impolite."

Firkraag came back around to the raven-haired girl, briefly. He had found the last of his good sport at last.

"If you will excuse me," he started to say. Then stopped.

That girl was gone.

He blinked around in surprise for a moment, not even hearing her having left. And that was unheard of for him. He laughed a little at the thought. But somehow, she had already managed to flee. It was a small matter, though, and just as well. He was done with her.

The red-haired man came back about on the paladin knight and de'Arnise. He now had that noble's daughter hefted over one shoulder, trying to make his staggering way away with her. Firkraag only clucked his tongue loudly inside his mouth.

"And just where do you think _you_ are going …?"

Sir Keldorn Firecam heard that voice speaking to him. He heard the dulcet whisper and the heady thunder of hidden power in its wake. He had lived a long time and seen too many things. But that thing had been around far longer. And he had no illusions about getting out of that place alive now.

The gates leading back out of the keep were rent – blasted to bits. The handiwork of that creature as it tore apart what was left of his men. They were all dead, he knew. Or would be soon enough. He limped his broken old body ahead toward that hole, the girl just barely alive in his arms. He might save her at least. If he could just hide her before that thing came back for him.

He heard it speaking to him, and he ignored it. Even as he felt the surge of magic in the air – more powerful than almost any other he had ever found in any inquisition. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as covered in blood as they were. It was not only his own, but enough of it was.

And the blast hit him. It struck him hard right in the back, burning through leather down to the flesh beneath. He winced, gasping aloud and falling down to a knee. He almost lost the girl, trembling there against the ground. But he didn't.

His muscles spasmed. He gritted his teeth, breathing hard. A few more, desperate moments, and he was slowly pushing back up to his feet. He teetered there for an eternity. But he didn't fall over.

He started forward again. Slowly. The sound of low laughter shadowed close behind.

The next blow took him off his feet. He had known that it would, and could do nothing to stop it. The last of his strength had gone into that failing attempt to push just a little bit further. This time, however, his knees buckled right under him. He fell aside, collapsing back against the keep walls. He just barely managed to toss the girl as far away as he could. If he was lucky, the other might just take her for already dead.

And he slumped there, breathing hard. Sweat poured down one side of his face from the flames still burning all about – blood, down the other. He fumbled with the long knife at his belt, briefly. But it was no good. There was nothing left for it now but to wait, as those footsteps crept closer.

He looked up when the thing came to stand over him. That thinly veiled disguise didn't fool his eyes. Even had he not had half a brain to wonder were such a cleanly-dressed nobleman had come from in the midst of all that carnage, he had hunted too many witches and wizards in his years not to see through their countless tricks. Magic might have flowed through that other's veins for centuries, but Keldorn was far from blind even if already more than half dead.

"The battle is yours," he admitted with a shaky breath, blinking up at that monster and keeping his voice as even as he could. Fear was a mercy for the living, and they both knew he was not destined for that anymore. The other merely smiled back.

"It always was," the creature assured him, complacently. It more than deserved it, though. Few things mortal could have challenged it there, even had they known what was in store. He certainly hadn't, and that bothered him more than anything else.

"Yours beasts are slaughtered," the old knight pointed out. The only victory, for whatever it was worth. The other, however, seemed not to agree.

"So are yours."

Keldorn forced out a heavy breath, shaking his head the little he could. So much wasted effort. Enough battles and one realized there was no such thing as a glorious defeat. At least not when nothing was gained. That slaughter would have no witnesses.

Eventually, he just glared up at the beast.

"Well?" he demanded, spitting blood into the ground. He managed an even stare. "What are you waiting for?"

He waited. But that one was just staring down at him. He smiled, slowly.

Then he bent down close to the knight.

"Here," he said, reaching for that long knife the old man was clutching at his belt. "Let me help you with that."

He tugged on the blade. But the man's fingers didn't give way. Not immediately. The monster grinned to himself as he forced them too. And then he dangled the knife right in front of the knight's face.

"It has been some time," was all he said, as he pressed that steel to the flesh of his throat.

And he started to cut.


	36. Chapter 2 An Apple and a Tree

_**An Apple and a Tree**_

Anomen just managed to stumble out into the courtyard to the sight of that blood-red man slicing up Sir Firecam's throat. And screamed.

"_NO_!"

He forgot the Elf. The man had been limping along at his side, half his tunic torn off and wrapped tight about that arm of his. It was soaked through red, and he was a pale as a sheet. But the squire was no better.

And he dropped the ranger at that horrible death filling his eyes just then.

Lord Jierdan Firkraag's face whipped back around on him. He would have known it anywhere after that day, so much hate boiled alive in his blood at the scene. It made him forget the broken bones and bleeding wounds. It made him forget the sickening sight of all those dead knights scattered everywhere around the courtyard of the keep. It made him forget his name. It made him forget himself.

And it made him charge right at that silk-swaddled nobleman.

He didn't get very far, though.

A blast of fire erupted forth from Firkraag's outstretched hand, knocking the squire right back of his feet. He twisted away, scraping along stone. Flames seared half his body, sticking to the mail, and he tumbled over and over, howling aloud. The red-haired man only grinned offhandedly at that, sparing a brief glance at the dying Elf all but helpless beyond.

He cast another ball of fire that way, not really caring whether it hit or miss.

"Now," the man said, turning back on the old paladin choking up blood. He crouched back down with the red-stained knife in hand, eying the other's half-torn neck with a shrewd eye.

"Where were we?"

He laughed. And lifted that blade.

"Ah, yes."

He kept smiling at the old man as he put that tiny blade to his throat once more. But it was a strange thing that happened then. He went about finishing what he had started, giving that beaten fool an ignominious death like some common cutthroat. And laughing at his own little joke.

Or, at least, he would have.

Had his hand obeyed him.

He blinked when that knife did not touch flesh. Confused. And then he looked back over at it, not having moved. His eyes followed it up in surprise.

And he found that girl.

"_You_ again?" he started to say, a little more than astonished now. Not quite incredulous. But close.

Or, at least, he would have.

Had that hand not started to rot away. Right where she held it.

He hissed instead. Black shadow polluted those veins, curling black illusory flesh and peeling away to bone and sinew. The whole limb started to come undone, melting away to diseased and cadaveric meat, falling right off into nothingness. And he felt something he had not felt in a long time.

Pain.

The knife fell free from his fingers, clattering loudly down to stone. He snatched his hand back, what little good it was now. He actually stumbled back a few steps, baring his teeth at her. He didn't know _how_ that wretched thing had managed to sneak up on him. But that simple witchery should have been no match for the blood in his veins.

He stumbled back, snapping his jaws at her. All the while, that very blood spilled out and down to the ground.

"This is your fate, you _stupid_ little girl!" he hissed aloud at her in shock, cradling his dead arm.

Already teeth flashed. They stretched out into razored fangs all across his mouth. Gnashing together. Seething. Those emerald eyes blazed.

"You should have run while you had the chance!"

That tongue slipped out, forking through the middle. Mandible cracked, and he spit out viciously back in her direction.

"Now, you will never leave this place _alive_ …"

He was still backpedaling. He needed the room as his whole body started to shift, expanding, cracking aloud, and stretching all at once. That insignificant little wretch's black eyes followed him all the way up, staring at him hollowly like some ghoul after his flesh.

Another few seconds, though, and there was far too much for that.

His head thrust out, spitting bony spikes all about its jowl. Nostrils fared, slipping forward atop his jaw until those bladed teeth were gleaming through reptilian lips down full at her. Arms sprawled, scales sprouting from his back, and black talons crashed down against stone. His legs pulled behind him, massive and muscled. Leathery wings sprouted high from his back.

As that girl watched, Lord Jierdan Firkraag vanished from the face of Faerùn. And she was left staring up with those dead eyes at a dragon.

A _red_ dragon.

If that impending death registered at all with the raven-haired daughter as she watched the serpentine monster stomp back over toward her with feline grace and leisure, she didn't show it. For his part, Firkraag really didn't care. He just slipped his horned head in close, savoring the flames to come.

"For Gorion Greymantle's child," he intoned, booming down into that puny creature's little face. He let some smoke slip out through his teeth for good effect. It washed right over her.

"You certainly aren't very bright."

And she wasn't.

She was dead.

He let the rest of it out then. Fire splashed down into the courtyard over that girl. She didn't even _try_ to run. Not that it would have helped. But it certainly would have been more satisfying. It always was.

There were so very few things quite so savory as roasting a choice problem.

Alive.

Those flames finally petered out when he grew tired of seeing ash sprinkling the air. If only everything could be solved so imply, he mused aloud. And he was just starting to mull over in his mind the thought of whether to return to human form to finish off the knight's leader, or merely end that game now to spare him the trouble. It certainly wasn't as if anyone else was going to see his handiwork until well after the fact. It really was quite a shame.

But that was when the smoke cleared. And he noticed something really quite annoying.

That girl was still there.

And in one piece, no less.

His head swung back around.

"Oh … _bother_," came that heavy sigh through twin rows of dagger-like teeth.

He stared down at her. For a moment, he wasn't quite sure whether to be stunned – or simply more irritated. He went for the latter, thinking wearily that it was just rude for anything to persist like that long after it should have been killed. Like lingering guests at those parties he had to throw every so often to keep up the façade of Lord Jierdan – sometimes they just didn't quite know when they were no longer wanted. It wasn't as if the tedious little creatures lived very long anyways.

And that was when he did the same thing he always did to grossly unwelcome guests.

He brought his great, crested head right down on that girl.

And ate her.

Heavy jaws swallowed tiny flesh right up. No more than a second, and it was past his teeth and down his throat. Had he still worn Jierdan's face, he would have grimaced. As it was, he just flashed those twin rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The taste was always horrible. It was the worst part. He tried to avoid those dirty little creatures with his tongue, especially when they were so troublesome as to not be thoroughly cooked first. Needless to say, he had to clap his jagged jaws a few times after he came back up to shake free even the memory of that terrible meat. It really was _foul_ …

And, once he was adequately finished …

He came back around to the fallen old paladin knight.

"Still alive, holy one?" he bellowed down in rich timbre at the little dying man. That one had collapsed over onto his side by now, but his eyes were still open and cognizant – if barely. It really was unfortunate that he could not have met the other with that death like he had wished. Maybe even taken that head for a trophy or … well, something. Really, that all was just starting to grow a bit tedious and dull.

If he thought there was to be an end to those irritations, though, he was not pleasantly surprised when something started biting in at his beautifully scaled ankles.

He whisked his head back about the other way, grumbling. The sound beat down on the scarred courtyard like an earthquake, flames in his throat.

"Is there really no end to you pests?" he sighed. Then peeked down to where he had felt that light pricking. Some fool had been shooting something at him. And he flapped one magnificent wing, aghast at that insult.

He found the source soon enough. That half-scorched idiot who had tried to blindly rush him. He had some crude little contraption in his hands, firing away. And Firkraag just gaped at him for a moment with his teeth.

It really was quite vulgar.

His glorious tail came whipping instantly about, crashing hard into the side of the keep. Stone crashed down, rumbling along the ground. One of the towers collapsed, and melted away into shattered brick. The little man was too close to the ground, however, lying prone as he was, and broken. Otherwise, it would have been over and done with right there.

As it was, Firkraag had to stomp a little closer to finish him off. He put his one good arm down to the ground, claws catching the tiny little knight and pinning him even more. One pressed hard into metal down to flesh, slowly. Until the thing cried out aloud.

"Now," he rumbled down to its level, craning his neck. He bent it low.

"Hold still a moment, won't you?"

And let his nostrils flare.

He coughed. A great gout of smoke puffed out of his jaws, enveloping the man. That one cringed and writhed under the fumes. Firkraag only shook his mighty head, though. He took a step back, releasing the little creature.

Another cough. He wrestled with his long, elegant throat, trying to make flames come up. At first, it had just been to roast that little morsel into nothingness – they did seem to take such great exception to burning alive to death. Now, it was more agitated. Desperate, even. He did manage to make a hiccup of fire shoot up into the air, but it was pitifully small. He started to stumble.

That voice was suddenly choked. Even for his great, powerful lungs – he couldn't breathe. He started to thrash about, wildly throwing his head every which way and snapping its jaws. More parapets fell. Stone cracked and tumbled down to the earth like broken sand. He started to claw deep furrows into the rock below, hissing past forked tongue and jagged teeth.

And, all the while … the flesh beneath his beautiful scales began to turn black and rot away. Huge slabs of reddish flesh turned filthy and diseased, and slapped down to the ground, wet with dragon's blood and decay.

He leapt into the air, frenzied. Great wings slammed into stone and rock. His whole body smashed through half the keep walls. That was what grounded him again.

He spluttered, flailing over to the blunt grasses without like a limp fish on dry land. Claws and wings thrashed against the dirt, tongue lolling out of his mouth. And that was it. A few more minutes of feeble struggle.

And he was dead.

* * *

A hand slipped along the walls, feeling thick contours and stucco relief under carved wood. Black smudges trailed in the wake of creeping fingers, dotting them with dark little seeds. A painting stood out – a wailing madman clutching at the sides of his head and shrieking into nothingness. Imoen started to cringe at the sight of it, but instead just spit up more of that bile.

She choked up all over the wall, hugging it tight. Her whole body convulsed from within. Sick. Nauseated. Diseased blood sloshing through her veins. She thought she must be dying. Her throat was slick with death, head full of nightmares. She just tried to crawl away.

"_Please_," she was begging aloud to no one. Her tongue gagged on blood and acid as she did, tears burning in her eyes. She slid along that wall, lurching her way forward and barely keeping her feet. She was shaking her head, squeezing those eyes shut.

And when they opened again, she was looking at one of those mages. There weren't so many left now, and she started. That man did too, though, eyes wide and terrified as he tried to drag his broken body back along the carpets underneath and away from there. Away from _her_.

She bristled. All that illness burned away for a moment, replaced by piercing, _blinding_ hate. Her teeth bared, black. She stumbled away from the wall.

"You," she choked, seething. She took a step toward the man even as he cowered there on the floor. "_You_ did this to me," she hissed, trudging leadenly onward.

The mage shook his head quickly, helplessly. He was mewling too. She didn't hear him, though. That acid was boiling beneath her skin again, threatening to burst right out. She let those fires start dancing atop the flesh once more.

The man managed to gather his wits enough to climb frantically back to his feet. And he took off down that sumptuous hallway, feet flailing and wild as he tried to escape. She stalked after him, tripping over her own villainous body, eyes ablaze.

He vanished into a room. And she hurled those fistfuls of death right after. They exploded, bursting the place apart at the seams.

She was choking on dust as well now. Splinters filled the air as she staggered out into that next room, collapsed in on itself as it was. She found the pitiful little wizard inside, trembling beneath a fallen beam set afire and desperately trying to pull himself free. When he caught sight of her terrible, black-riddled face, though, he stopped.

And he started screaming.

She wiped the face of Faerùn clean of him quickly enough. Sickly, green flames burned away everything until there was only ash. Pale embers wafted in the still air, smelling of brimstone and hellfire. She stared at that black scorch mark in the floor where a Human being had once been. And she suddenly felt sick all over again.

Her feet carried her quickly out of that room. But she didn't get far. She pitched out into the next hallway, collapsing down hard atop her knees. Her hands caught her against the ground once more, and she started retching.

She cried, and she heaved. There was nothing left inside of her by now. She had become a ghost – a wraith of death and murder, haunting those hauls with flame and light now that she had been torn apart and made anew. And she wailed. She slammed her frail fists down into the carpeted floors and cried aloud everything that she had done.

She was evil. A broken, _bawling_ mess sniveling there on the floor. But she was evil. She could feel it. And it swallowed everything up inside that she had ever known. She even forgot her own name. It was some else's now. Someone … dead.

But then, just as abruptly …

It stopped.

It all stopped.

Every sound died away, and there was nothing. All thought and feeling bleed out her ears until there was only silence and empty space. She was left gasping there in the cold and the dark loneliness. She was alone again. She stared at her hands. They were still covered in blood. But there was something.

Something … else.

She could feel it. An inexorable tug from far below, like demons coming to snatch her back to where she really belonged. The world held its breath, and so did she. That something rose up slowly from the depths beneath her feet, reality screaming and twisting for her all the way.

She waited.

Time stood still. For a moment. An eternity.

And her face slowly started to fall even more.

No.

_No_.

She wasn't alone. Not anymore.

Her eyes rolled away inside her head. The hair crept along the back of her neck, a cold chill crawling right up her spine. She slowly started to turn back around. But she could already feel the ice running through her veins, breath misting in the warm air.

She looked back around.

And there he was.

She just swallowed, thickly. Staring at the last and worst of her nightmares made flesh and bone again. She watched in silence for a time, waiting for it to be swallowed back up inside her head like all the others.

She squeezed her eyes shut. But when she finally opened them again …

That demon was still there. That plastic face was waiting for her.

"Hello, little one."

And she sobbed, as that hand started to reach for her. She briefly thought that he must have been waiting for her all along.

It was the last sound she made in that place.


End file.
